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Thread: A collection for Razeus

  1. #1

    A collection for Razeus

    Razeus asked for a good collection to read There are of course good printed collections - but I thought "Why not make our own? ". I am of course counting on you all to contribute with your splendid taste and knowledge. We have the opportunity no real poetry geek can pass down.

    I have no idea what your taste in poems are Razues, but I love this one that looks like a childrens rhyme. There is more to it though, and it will be my way of welcoming you to poetry.


    EE Cummings - maggie and milly and molly and may

    maggie and milly and molly and may
    went down to the beach(to play one day)

    and maggie discovered a shell that sang
    so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and

    milly befriended a stranded star
    whose rays five languid fingers were;

    and molly was chased by a horrible thing
    which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

    may came home with a smooth round stone
    as small as the world and as large as alone.

    For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
    it's always ourselves we find in the sea
    "Man was made for joy and woe;
    And when this we rightly know
    Through the world we safely go" Blake

  2. #2
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    Good suggestion, Isagel, also one of my favorite my E.E. Cummings.
    As we speak of specific works, a few poems I have always loved that flow just short and sweet (otherwise, I would also site John Keats' "Endymion" and Percy Bysshe Shelley's "The Triumph Of Life"):

    Piano

    Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
    Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
    A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
    And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
    In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
    Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
    To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
    And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

    So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
    With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
    Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
    Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

    D.H. Lawrence

    -----

    Because I could not stop for Death,
    He kindly stopped for me;
    The carriage held but just ourselves
    And Immortality.

    We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
    And I had put away
    My labor, and my leisure too,
    For his civility.

    We passed the school where children played
    At wrestling in a ring;
    We passed the fields of gazing grain,
    We passed the setting sun.

    We paused before a house that seemed
    A swelling of the ground;
    The roof was scarcely visible,
    The cornice but a mound.

    Since then ’t is centuries; but each
    Feels shorter than the day
    I first surmised the horses’ heads
    Were toward eternity.

    Emily Dickinson

    -----

    Stopping By The Woods On A Snowy Evening

    Whose woods these are I think I know.
    His house is in the village though;
    He will not see me stopping here
    To watch his woods fill up with snow.

    My little horse must think it queer
    To stop without a farmhouse near
    Between the woods and frozen lake
    The darkest evening of the year.

    He gives his harness bells a shake
    To ask if there is some mistake.
    The only other sound's the sweep
    Of easy wind and downy flake.

    The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
    But I have promises to keep,
    And miles to go before I sleep,
    And miles to go before I sleep.

    Robert Frost

    -----
    possibly . . . (a bit of a difficult read)

    Kubla Khan

    In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
    A stately pleasure-dome decree:
    Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
    Through caverns measureless to man
    Down to a sunless sea.

    So twice five miles of fertile ground
    With walls and towers were girdled round:
    And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
    Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
    And here were forests ancient as the hills,
    Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

    But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
    Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
    A savage place! as holy and enchanted
    As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
    By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
    And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
    As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
    A mighty fountain momently was forced:
    Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
    Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
    Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
    And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
    It flung up momently the sacred river.
    Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
    Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
    Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
    And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
    And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
    Ancestral voices prophesying war!

    The shadow of the dome of pleasure
    Floated midway on the waves;
    Where was heard the mingled measure
    From the fountain and the caves.
    It was a miracle of rare device,
    A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

    A damsel with a dulcimer
    In a vision once I saw:
    It was an Abyssinian maid,
    And on her dulcimer she played,
    Singing of Mount Abora.
    Could I revive within me
    Her symphony and song,
    To such a deep delight 'twould win me
    That with music loud and long
    I would build that dome in air,
    That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
    And all who heard should see them there,
    And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
    His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
    Weave a circle round him thrice,
    And close your eyes with holy dread,
    For he on honey-dew hath fed
    And drunk the milk of Paradise.

    Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  3. #3
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    Now that would be telling it, wouldnt it?
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    I love "Khubla Khan" Momo, such a pity it was an opium induced raving and was never finished.
    ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&# 172;¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&#17 2;¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬ ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&# 172;¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&#17 2;¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&#172 ;
    In Westminster Abbey

    Let me take this other glove off
    As the vox humana swells,
    And the beauteous fields of Eden
    Bask beneath the Abbey bells.
    Here, where England's statesmen lie,
    Listen to a lady's cry.

    Gracious Lord, oh bomb the Germans.
    Spare their women for Thy Sake,
    And if that is not too easy
    We will pardon Thy Mistake.
    But, gracious Lord, whate'er shall be,
    Don't let anyone bomb me.

    Keep our Empire undismembered
    Guide our Forces by Thy Hand,
    Gallant blacks from far Jamaica,
    Honduras and Togoland;
    Protect them Lord in all their fights,
    And, even more, protect the whites.

    .....
    Now I feel a little better,
    What a treat to hear Thy word,
    Where the bones of leading statesmen,
    Have so often been interr'd.
    And now, dear Lord, I cannot wait
    Because I have a luncheon date.

    -- John Betjeman
    (this is only my favourite parts as the poemm is still in copyright
    ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&# 172;¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&#17 2;¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬ ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&# 172;¬¬
    Tyger Tyger

    Tyger Tyger burning bright,

    In the forests of the night;

    What immortal hand or eye,

    Could frame thy fearful symmetry?



    In what distant deeps or skies,

    Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

    On what wings dare he aspire?

    What the hand dare sieze the fire?



    And what shoulder & what art,

    Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

    And when thy heart began to beat,

    What dread hand?& what dread feet?



    What the hammer? What the chain?

    In what furnace was thy brain?

    What the anvil? What dread grasp

    Dare its deadly terrors clasp!



    When the stars threw down their spears

    And water’d heaven with their tears:

    Did he smile his work to see?

    Did he who made the lamb make thee?



    Tyger Tyger burning bright,

    In the forests of the night:

    What immortal hand or eye,

    Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

    -----William Blake
    ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&# 172;¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&#17 2;¬¬¬¬¬
    DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT


    Do not go gentle into that good night,
    Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
    Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
    Because their words had forked no lightning they
    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
    Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
    And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
    Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    And you, my father, there on the sad height,
    Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
    Do not go gentle into that good night.
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    -----------------------Dylan Thomas

    ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&# 172;¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&#17 2;¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬ ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&# 172;¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&#17 2;¬
    `No man is an island`
    No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.

    If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of they friends`s or of thine own were.

    Any man`s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

    John Donne
    ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&# 172;¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&#17 2;¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬ ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&# 172;¬¬¬¬¬¬
    Bed In Summer


    In winter I get up at night,
    And dress by yellow candle light.
    In summer quite the other way,
    I have to go to bed by day.

    I have to go to bed and see
    The birds still hopping on the tree,
    Or hear the grown up people's feet
    Still going past me in the street.

    And does it not seem hard to you,
    When all the sky is clear and blue,
    And I should like so much to play,
    To have to go to bed by day?
    Robert Louis Stevenson
    ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&# 172;¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&#17 2;¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬ ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬&# 172;¬
    The Female of the Species

    WHEN the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
    He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
    But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
    For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

    When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
    He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
    But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
    For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

    When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
    They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
    'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
    For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

    Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
    For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;
    But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale—
    The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

    Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,—
    Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
    Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
    To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

    Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
    To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
    Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex
    Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!

    But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
    Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
    And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
    The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

    She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
    May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.
    These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells—
    She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

    She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
    As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
    And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
    Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

    She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;
    Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—
    He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
    Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

    Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights,
    Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,
    Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
    And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!

    So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
    With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
    Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
    To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.

    And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
    Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.
    And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
    That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.
    ------Kipling
    Last edited by Nightshade; 01-16-2008 at 09:57 AM. Reason: copyright laws
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  4. #4
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    hey thx guys for starting this. I love novels and such but never read much poetry. I'd like to get started. Please add more!
    No man should die without first reading the world's greatest literature.

  5. #5
    Hello again Razeus.

    Now you had had a small sample of poetry. What did you like, and why?

    Personally I love the Dylan Thomas poem. I think it captures how rage is not only a destructive process but also the driving force behind struggle. We need anger. I learnt to like it even more after reading that he wrote this to his father, when the father was dying. That way the poem is not only someones struggle, but also a plea from the son, that his father should concur death.

    The Tyger poem I did not like at first - mostly because I could not grasp how I was supposed to pronounce "symmetry" in the last line. But someone told, me that you should put the stress on fearful, and that way it doesn´t matter that it does not rhyme, the rythm is right.

    This is a very long poem by William Carlos Williams. I hope you will like it. It does not look like it should when I paste it. In the real poem the lines are more spread on the page. The last lines says alot about poetry, and I would like to hear your opinion. :

    Of asphodel, that greeny flower,


    Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
    like a buttercup
    upon its branching stem-
    save that it's green and wooden-
    I come, my sweet,
    to sing to you.
    We lived long together
    a life filled,
    if you will,
    with flowers. So that
    I was cheered
    when I came first to know
    that there were flowers also
    in hell.
    Today
    I'm filled with the fading memory of those flowers
    that we both loved,
    even to this poor
    colorless thing-
    I saw it
    when I was a child-
    little prized among the living
    but the dead see,
    asking among themselves:
    What do I remember
    that was shaped
    as this thing is shaped?
    while our eyes fill
    with tears.
    Of love, abiding love
    it will be telling
    though too weak a wash of crimson
    colors it
    to make it wholly credible.
    There is something
    something urgent
    I have to say to you
    and you alone
    but it must wait
    while I drink in
    the joy of your approach,
    perhaps for the last time.
    And so
    with fear in my heart
    I drag it out
    and keep on talking
    for I dare not stop.
    Listen while I talk on
    against time.
    It will not be
    for long.
    I have forgot
    and yet I see clearly enough
    something
    central to the sky
    which ranges round it.
    An odor
    springs from it!
    A sweetest odor!
    Honeysuckle! And now
    there comes the buzzing of a bee!
    and a whole flood
    of sister memories!
    Only give me time,
    time to recall them
    before I shall speak out.
    Give me time,
    time.
    When I was a boy
    I kept a book
    to which, from time
    to time,
    I added pressed flowers
    until, after a time,
    I had a good collection.
    The asphodel,
    forebodingly,
    among them.
    I bring you,
    reawakened,
    a memory of those flowers.
    They were sweet
    when I pressed them
    and retained
    something of their sweetness
    a long time.
    It is a curious odor,
    a moral odor,
    that brings me
    near to you.
    The color
    was the first to go.
    There had come to me
    a challenge,
    your dear self,
    mortal as I was,
    the lily's throat
    to the hummingbird!
    Endless wealth,
    I thought,
    held out its arms to me.
    A thousand tropics
    in an apple blossom.
    The generous earth itself
    gave us lief.
    The whole world
    became my garden!
    But the sea
    which no one tends
    is also a garden
    when the sun strikes it
    and the waves
    are wakened.
    I have seen it
    and so have you
    when it puts all flowers
    to shame.
    Too, there are the starfish
    stiffened by the sun
    and other sea wrack
    and weeds. We knew that
    along with the rest of it
    for we were born by the sea,
    knew its rose hedges
    to the very water's brink.
    There the pink mallow grows
    and in their season
    strawberries
    and there, later,
    we went to gather
    the wild plum.
    I cannot say
    that I have gone to hell
    for your love
    but often
    found myself there
    in your pursuit.
    I do not like it
    and wanted to be
    in heaven. Hear me out.
    Do not turn away.
    I have learned much in my life
    from books
    and out of them
    about love.
    Death
    is not the end of it.
    There is a hierarchy
    which can be attained,
    I think,
    in its service.
    Its guerdon
    is a fairy flower;
    a cat of twenty lives.
    If no one came to try it
    the world
    would be the loser.
    It has been
    for you and me
    as one who watches a storm
    come in over the water.
    We have stood
    from year to year
    before the spectacle of our lives
    with joined hands.
    The storm unfolds.
    Lightning
    plays about the edges of the clouds.
    The sky to the north
    is placid,
    blue in the afterglow
    as the storm piles up.
    It is a flower
    that will soon reach
    the apex of its bloom.
    We danced,
    in our minds,
    and read a book together.
    You remember?
    It was a serious book.
    And so books
    entered our lives.
    The sea! The sea!
    Always
    when I think of the sea
    there comes to mind
    the Iliad
    and Helen's public fault
    that bred it.
    Were it not for that
    there would have been
    no poem but the world
    if we had remembered,
    those crimson petals
    spilled among the stones,
    would have called it simply
    murder.
    The sexual orchid that bloomed then
    sending so many
    disinterested
    men to their graves
    has left its memory
    to a race of fools
    or heroes
    if silence is a virtue.
    The sea alone
    with its multiplicity
    holds any hope.
    The storm
    has proven abortive
    but we remain
    after the thoughts it roused
    to
    re-cement our lives.
    It is the mind
    the mind
    that must be cured
    short of death's
    intervention,
    and the will becomes again
    a garden. The poem
    is complex and the place made
    in our lives
    for the poem.
    Silence can be complex too,
    but you do not get far
    with silence.
    Begin again.
    It is like Homer's
    catalogue of ships:
    it fills up the time.
    I speak in figures,
    well enough, the dresses
    you wear are figures also,
    we could not meet
    otherwise. When I speak
    of flowers
    it is to recall
    that at one time
    we were young.
    All women are not Helen,
    I know that,
    but have Helen in their hearts.
    My sweet,
    you have it also, therefore
    I love you
    and could not love you otherwise.
    Imagine you saw
    a field made up of women
    all silver-white.
    What should you do
    but love them?
    The storm bursts
    or fades! it is not
    the end of the world.
    Love is something else,
    or so I thought it,
    a garden which expands,
    though I knew you as a woman
    and never thought otherwise,
    until the whole sea
    has been taken up
    and all its gardens.
    It was the love of love,
    the love that swallows up all else,
    a grateful love,
    a love of nature, of people,
    of animals,
    a love engendering
    gentleness and goodness
    that moved me
    and that I saw in you.
    I should have known,
    though I did not,
    that the lily-of-the-valley
    is a flower makes many ill
    who whiff it.
    We had our children,
    rivals in the general onslaught.
    I put them aside
    though I cared for them.
    as well as any man
    could care for his children
    according to my lights.
    You understand
    I had to meet you
    after the event
    and have still to meet you.
    Love
    to which you too shall bow
    along with me-
    a flower
    a weakest flower
    shall be our trust
    and not because
    we are too feeble
    to do otherwise
    but because
    at the height of my power
    I risked what I had to do,
    therefore to prove
    that we love each other
    while my very bones sweated
    that I could not cry to you
    in the act.
    Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
    I come, my sweet,
    to sing to you!
    My heart rouses
    thinking to bring you news
    of something
    that concerns you
    and concerns many men. Look at
    what passes for the new.
    You will not find it there but in
    despised poems.
    It is difficult
    to get the news from poems
    yet men die miserably every day
    for lack
    of what is found there.
    Hear me out
    for I too am concerned
    and every man
    who wants to die at peace in his bed
    besides.
    Last edited by Isagel; 05-30-2005 at 02:24 PM.
    "Man was made for joy and woe;
    And when this we rightly know
    Through the world we safely go" Blake

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