National Poetry Day

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National Poetry Day

Postby chillicamper » Fri Oct 05, 2012 5:23 am

Yesterday was National poetry day.......but I didn't have time to post this yesterday.

So do any of you have a favourite poem ?

I heard this one and thought it was quite cool.

Dash
by Linda Ellis

I read of a man who stood to speak
at the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone,
from the beginning…to the end.

He noted that first came the date of her birth
and spoke of the following date with tears,
but he said what mattered most of all
was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
that she spent alive on earth.
And now only those who loved her
know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not, how much we own,
the cars…the house…the cash.
What matters is how we live and love
and how we spend our dash.

So, think about this long and hard.
Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left
that can still be rearranged.

If we could just slow down enough
to consider what’s true and real
and always try to understand
the way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger
and show appreciation more
and love the people in our lives
like we’ve never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect
and more often wear a smile,
remembering that this special dash
might only last a little while.

So, when your eulogy is being read,
with your life’s actions to rehash…
would you be proud of the things they say
about how you spent YOUR dash?



However, if that one is a bit deep for you, here's another I like>

She stood on the bridge at midnight
Her lips were all a'quiver
She gave a cough
Her leg fell off
And floated down the river

:lol: :lol:
Wooden stuff at www.iwoodlovethat.co.uk
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Re: National Poetry Day

Postby The Mad Collector » Fri Oct 05, 2012 12:43 pm

Quite fond of Robert Frost

Mending Wall by Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors.'
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, 'Good fences make good neighbors.'
One of those? Oh I'm sure I have one somewhere..

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Re: National Poetry Day

Postby The Mad Collector » Fri Oct 05, 2012 12:47 pm

But I also got to know the works of Robert Service whilst paddling a kayak down the Yukon river to the Klondike gold fields 17 years ago as I took a volume of his poetry with me.

Image

The Spell of the Yukon

I wanted the gold, and I sought it,
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy -- I fought it;
I hurled my youth into a grave.

I wanted the gold, and I got it --
Came out with a fortune last fall, --
Yet somehow life's not what I thought it,
And somehow the gold isn't all.

No! There's the land. (Have you seen it?)
It's the cussedest land that I know,
From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it
To the deep, deathlike valleys below.

Some say God was tired when He made it;
Some say it's a fine land to shun;
Maybe; but there's some as would trade it
For no land on earth -- and I'm one.

You come to get rich (damned good reason);
You feel like an exile at first;
You hate it like hell for a season,
And then you are worse than the worst.

It grips you like some kinds of sinning;
It twists you from foe to a friend;
It seems it's been since the beginning;
It seems it will be to the end.

I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
That's plumb-full of hush to the brim;
I've watched the big, husky sun wallow
In crimson and gold, and grow dim,

Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,
And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;
And I've thought that I surely was dreaming,
With the peace o' the world piled on top.

The summer -- no sweeter was ever;
The sunshiny woods all athrill;
The grayling aleap in the river,
The bighorn asleep on the hill.

The strong life that never knows harness;
The wilds where the caribou call;
The freshness, the freedom, the farness --
O God! how I'm stuck on it all.

The winter! the brightness that blinds you,
The white land locked tight as a drum,
The cold fear that follows and finds you,
The silence that bludgeons you dumb.

The snows that are older than history,
The woods where the weird shadows slant;
The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,
I've bade 'em good-by -- but I can't.

There's a land where the mountains are nameless,
And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;

There are hardships that nobody reckons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There's a land -- oh, it beckons and beckons,
And I want to go back -- and I will.

They're making my money diminish;
I'm sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God! when I'm skinned to a finish
I'll pike to the Yukon again.

I'll fight -- and you bet it's no sham-fight;
It's hell! -- but I've been there before;
And it's better than this by a damsite --
So me for the Yukon once more.

There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting;
It's luring me on as of old;
Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting
So much as just finding the gold.

It's the great, big, broad land 'way up yonder,
It's the forests where silence has lease;
It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It's the stillness that fills me with peace
One of those? Oh I'm sure I have one somewhere..

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Re: National Poetry Day

Postby Mycroft Vimes » Fri Oct 05, 2012 5:15 pm

Came across this(slightly shorter) in a SF-story long ago,of which i've since forgotten the name/author(anyone? :D ).
I did not forget this beautiful bit of 'wordsmithery' :roll: :P though by Alexander Pope :

'Know then thyself, presume not God to scan,
The proper study of Mankind is Man.
Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state,
A Being darkly wise, and rudely great:
With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side,
With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride,
He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest;
In doubt to deem himself a God, or Beast;
In doubt his Mind or Body to prefer;
Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err;
Alike in ignorance, his reason such,
Whether he thinks too little, or too much;
Chaos of Thought and Passion, all confus'd;
Still by himself, abus'd or disabus'd;
Created half to rise and half to fall;
Great Lord of all things, yet a prey to all,
Sole judge of Truth, in endless Error hurl'd;
The glory, jest and riddle of the world.'

Excerpt from The Essay on Man,great stuff.:)
'It's just like crop circles. No matter how many aliens own up to making them, there are always a few diehards who believe that humans go out with garden rollers in the middle of the night-'
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Re: National Poetry Day

Postby Batty » Fri Oct 05, 2012 5:58 pm

No idea who wrote this poem, but I've remembered it from my days at school.

I eat my peas with honey,
I've done so all my life.
They do taste kind of funny -
But it keeps them on my knife! :lol:
Going to my school was an education in itself. Which is not to be confused with actually getting an education (Schultz)
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Re: National Poetry Day

Postby Del » Fri Oct 05, 2012 6:02 pm

Mad wrote:But I also got to know the works of Robert Service whilst paddling a kayak down the Yukon river


You paddled down the Yukon River !!!?!?!?!?!?????!!! :o
Wow!
Just keep swimming... just keep swimming.. just keep swimming....
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Re: National Poetry Day

Postby The Mad Collector » Fri Oct 05, 2012 8:18 pm

Yep, it was great fun, hired a kayak loaded it up with supplies and set off with a friend who hadn't even camped before, we went 5 days without seeing another human and then met a couple of Americans who were also kayaking then went another few days just on our own. It was hard work but a fantastic experience, the picture is of Dave my mate on the trip on the shore of Lake Lebarge with our transport. :D
One of those? Oh I'm sure I have one somewhere..

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Re: National Poetry Day

Postby Jan Van Quirm » Fri Oct 05, 2012 9:36 pm

Here's one in a kind of similar vein of thought-prodding that's been brought to mind by Del's misadventures in the week (see Frustration Thread :shock: )

To a Louse
Robert Burns
(On seeing a louse on a lady's bonnet at church!)


Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely
Owre gauze and lace;
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunned by saunt an' sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a lady!
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner,
On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle
Wi' ither kindred, jumpin cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Whare horn or bane ne'er daur unsettle
Your thick plantations.

Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rels, snug an' tight;
Na faith ye yet! ye'll no be right
Till ye've got on it,
The vera tapmost, towering height
O' Miss's bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump an' grey as onie grozet:
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I'd gie ye sic a hearty dose o't,
Wad dress your droddum!

I wad na been surprised to spy
You on an auld wife's flainen toy;
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On's wyliecoat;
But Miss's fine Lunardi!—fie!
How daur ye do't?

O Jenny, dinna toss your head,
An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie's makin!
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin!

O, wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us
An' foolish notion:
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
And ev'n Devotion!

For non-feegle speakers there's a translation (3rd poem down) HERE... :P
"Some men see things as they are and ask why. Others dream things that never were and ask why not.” George Bernard Shaw
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Re: National Poetry Day

Postby Sister Jennifer » Sat Oct 06, 2012 4:28 am

There's been different poets/poems for different times in my life but an eternal favourite is;

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
by Maya Angelou

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.
Undead yes -
Unperson no!
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Re: National Poetry Day

Postby Del » Mon Oct 08, 2012 6:07 pm

Thank you Jan.

My father gave me the complete works of Burns when I was 12 and loved for me to read them "feegle-like".

Wish I had translations at the time as some were a right slog to understand. Some I had no idea about but loved the flow of the words.
Just keep swimming... just keep swimming.. just keep swimming....
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Re: National Poetry Day

Postby The Mad Collector » Mon Oct 08, 2012 7:24 pm

Love Burns, one of my favourite memories is of coaching a 13 year old Japanese American girl to recite Burns for the poetry section of the State high school public speaking tournament (National Forensic League for Americans here). I used to be a judge up to state level in Wisconsin for various strands of these speaking competitions and this little Japanese girl doing "To a Mouse" in dialect was a sight to behold :D
One of those? Oh I'm sure I have one somewhere..

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