Ponder and reply...
Monday, December 16, 2002 by @shu | Discussion: WinCustomize Talk
Has the genre of poetry lost its charm? I searched for 3 days to find the poem I used in 'Kavita', a wallpaper but got no feedback... 
I was hoping for a surge of feedback...
Is poetry dead????
I was hoping for a surge of feedback...
Is poetry dead????
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Koasati
Reply #23 Monday, December 16, 2002 4:20 PM
Reply #23 Monday, December 16, 2002 4:20 PM
Lightning slaying shadows in the tremors of the night
He creeps along the alley bringing fear before the fright
She sleeps in tattered trousers in the ballrooms decadence
Moaning gently by her dreaming of escorted precedence
Antiquated babbling from a constance stream of thought
Sensitively ringing out the rags that he has caught
Patting yet her bulging belly, she so slowly cries a smile
In anticipated suffering of her slowly growing child
He is seething in a vacuum going nowhere but of course
He might believe in discipline of a bloody kind of sort
And naturally a state of race, a never ending state of hate
While everything in some weird way does manage to relate
To her it doesn't matter more that chasm have been leapt
As she leans upon the skepticism of her chosen faith
Stand tall you spittle spattered son of man
Stand up you hear them say
To slap you down and kick your teeth
And smile across the day
Irrelevant, eloquent pleading wasn't what she did this year
She past it by and told a lie, and shed a crystal tear
For him to see from valleys edge, from plateaus in the sand
And yet he has beshit himself for being just a man
A bragging, crowing sort of twit, a cast off shade of pink
Who's brought himself and all the rest unto the very brink
Yet that magic urge continues on and plays continuum
A song of pleasure and pain and ill that will be done
Shawn Phillips
He creeps along the alley bringing fear before the fright
She sleeps in tattered trousers in the ballrooms decadence
Moaning gently by her dreaming of escorted precedence
Antiquated babbling from a constance stream of thought
Sensitively ringing out the rags that he has caught
Patting yet her bulging belly, she so slowly cries a smile
In anticipated suffering of her slowly growing child
He is seething in a vacuum going nowhere but of course
He might believe in discipline of a bloody kind of sort
And naturally a state of race, a never ending state of hate
While everything in some weird way does manage to relate
To her it doesn't matter more that chasm have been leapt
As she leans upon the skepticism of her chosen faith
Stand tall you spittle spattered son of man
Stand up you hear them say
To slap you down and kick your teeth
And smile across the day
Irrelevant, eloquent pleading wasn't what she did this year
She past it by and told a lie, and shed a crystal tear
For him to see from valleys edge, from plateaus in the sand
And yet he has beshit himself for being just a man
A bragging, crowing sort of twit, a cast off shade of pink
Who's brought himself and all the rest unto the very brink
Yet that magic urge continues on and plays continuum
A song of pleasure and pain and ill that will be done
Shawn Phillips
Jafo
Reply #24 Monday, December 16, 2002 4:37 PM
Reply #24 Monday, December 16, 2002 4:37 PM
Back to the Cricket....If the Pomms didn't care all that much about losing the Ashes, why is it that after 8 times in a row they STILL haven't let the Aussies keep the damn urn.
Is it because they KNOW they'd never get it back again?
Warnie might have buggered his shoulder but he could still bowl 'em all out underarm...
Is it because they KNOW they'd never get it back again?
Warnie might have buggered his shoulder but he could still bowl 'em all out underarm...
tinkergaloot
Reply #25 Monday, December 16, 2002 5:16 PM
Reply #25 Monday, December 16, 2002 5:16 PM
Funny how it's only when they are losing that the Poms don't care about the cricket. You can bet if they were winning the attitude would be altogether different... 
JamMeister33
Reply #26 Monday, December 16, 2002 5:25 PM
Reply #26 Monday, December 16, 2002 5:25 PM
"Nature
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which, though more splendid, may not please
him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what we
know."
--- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which, though more splendid, may not please
him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what we
know."
--- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
wombat_1
Reply #27 Monday, December 16, 2002 5:32 PM
Reply #27 Monday, December 16, 2002 5:32 PM
Rather apt to see "The Charge of The Light Brigade" following hard on the heels of a few remarks about Test Cricket!
We still haven't forgotten the "bodyline" series either!
What a poor show!
We still haven't forgotten the "bodyline" series either!
What a poor show!
Ande
Reply #28 Monday, December 16, 2002 5:59 PM
Reply #28 Monday, December 16, 2002 5:59 PM
I do not like poetry. It was shovelled down my throat at school, perhaps thats the reason. Why describe a situation in gobbledygook. I think it originated as class thing, don't let the masses know what we are talking about. Poor man be he who can not see the beauty in original use of words. Yeah right. 
BoXXi
Reply #29 Monday, December 16, 2002 6:27 PM
Reply #29 Monday, December 16, 2002 6:27 PM
I agree Ande.... I think poets are failed songwriters.
JamMeister33
Reply #30 Monday, December 16, 2002 6:30 PM
Reply #30 Monday, December 16, 2002 6:30 PM
Hey, Ande... go to Lord Vimal's ---Hey, JamMeister33 thread... go to post #20 and click on the link..
That oughta fix ya up better, my friend.....
That oughta fix ya up better, my friend.....
Fuzzy Logic
Reply #31 Monday, December 16, 2002 6:46 PM
Reply #31 Monday, December 16, 2002 6:46 PM
Words are only gobbledygook to the linguistically inept. Poor intellectually subjugated masses, I feel so sorry for you
Ande
Reply #33 Monday, December 16, 2002 7:13 PM
Reply #33 Monday, December 16, 2002 7:13 PM
What are ya sayin Fuzzy, Someone whated he say? Is he pikin on us. 
@shu
Reply #34 Monday, December 16, 2002 10:13 PM
Reply #34 Monday, December 16, 2002 10:13 PM
At dawn shey(1) departed
My mind tried to console me -
" Everything is Maya(2)".
Angrily I replied:
"Here's this sewing box on the table,
that flower-pot on the terrace,
this monogrammed hand-fan on the bed---
all these are real."
My mind said: "Yet, think again."
I rejoined: " You better stop.
Look at this storybook,
the hairpin halfway amongst its leaves,
signaling the rest is unread;
if all these things are "Maya",
then why should "shey" be more unreal?"
My mind becomes silent.
A friend arrived and says:
"That which is good is real
it is never non-existent;
entire world preserves and cherishes it its chest
like a precious jewel in a necklace."
I replied in anger: "How do you know?
Is a body not good? Where did that body go?"
Like a small boy in a rage hitting his mother,
I began to strike at everything in this world
that gave me shelter.
And I screamed:" The world is treacherous."
Suddenly, I was startled.
It seemed like someone admonished me :" You- ungrateful ! "
I looked at the crescent moon
hidden behind the tamarisk tree outside my window.
As if the dear departed one is smiling
and playing hide-and-seek with me.
From the depth of darkness punctuated by scattered stars
came a rebuke: "when I let you grasp me you call it an deception,
and yet when I remain concealed,
why do you hold on to your faith in me with such conviction?"
(1): "Shey" in Bengali can mean either he or she.
(2): "Maya" meaning Unreal.
This is a translation of a Bengali poem by Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore, the Nobel Prize Laureate.
Though it tries to capture the essence of the words, translations never quite make it...
My mind tried to console me -
" Everything is Maya(2)".
Angrily I replied:
"Here's this sewing box on the table,
that flower-pot on the terrace,
this monogrammed hand-fan on the bed---
all these are real."
My mind said: "Yet, think again."
I rejoined: " You better stop.
Look at this storybook,
the hairpin halfway amongst its leaves,
signaling the rest is unread;
if all these things are "Maya",
then why should "shey" be more unreal?"
My mind becomes silent.
A friend arrived and says:
"That which is good is real
it is never non-existent;
entire world preserves and cherishes it its chest
like a precious jewel in a necklace."
I replied in anger: "How do you know?
Is a body not good? Where did that body go?"
Like a small boy in a rage hitting his mother,
I began to strike at everything in this world
that gave me shelter.
And I screamed:" The world is treacherous."
Suddenly, I was startled.
It seemed like someone admonished me :" You- ungrateful ! "
I looked at the crescent moon
hidden behind the tamarisk tree outside my window.
As if the dear departed one is smiling
and playing hide-and-seek with me.
From the depth of darkness punctuated by scattered stars
came a rebuke: "when I let you grasp me you call it an deception,
and yet when I remain concealed,
why do you hold on to your faith in me with such conviction?"
(1): "Shey" in Bengali can mean either he or she.
(2): "Maya" meaning Unreal.
This is a translation of a Bengali poem by Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore, the Nobel Prize Laureate.
Though it tries to capture the essence of the words, translations never quite make it...
UBoB
Reply #35 Monday, December 16, 2002 10:37 PM
Reply #35 Monday, December 16, 2002 10:37 PM
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
-Edward Estlin (e.e.) Cummings
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
-Edward Estlin (e.e.) Cummings
goodmorphing
Reply #36 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 2:56 AM
Reply #36 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 2:56 AM
I don't know who to credit these to... they are "backwards poems"
One bright day in the middle of the night
Two dead boys got up to fight
back to back they faced eachother
drew their swords and shot eachother
a deaf policeman heard the noise
came and shot the two dead boys
if you don't believe this lie is true
ask the blind man
he saw too.
One fine October morning
In Septemer last July,
The moon lay thick upon the grond
The snow shone in the sky,
The flowers were singing gaily,
The brids were in full bloom,
i went down to the cellar
To sweep the upstairs room
Ladies and gentlemen,
I come before you to stand behind you,
To tell you something I know nothing about.
On Monday which is on good Friday,
There will be a mothers' meeting for fathers only,
Admission is free,
pay at the door.
Bring your own seats,
We'll sit on the floor.
One bright day in the middle of the night
Two dead boys got up to fight
back to back they faced eachother
drew their swords and shot eachother
a deaf policeman heard the noise
came and shot the two dead boys
if you don't believe this lie is true
ask the blind man
he saw too.
One fine October morning
In Septemer last July,
The moon lay thick upon the grond
The snow shone in the sky,
The flowers were singing gaily,
The brids were in full bloom,
i went down to the cellar
To sweep the upstairs room
Ladies and gentlemen,
I come before you to stand behind you,
To tell you something I know nothing about.
On Monday which is on good Friday,
There will be a mothers' meeting for fathers only,
Admission is free,
pay at the door.
Bring your own seats,
We'll sit on the floor.
Ande
Reply #37 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 5:41 AM
Reply #37 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 5:41 AM
goodmorphing, you know, I really understand what your poetic contribution is all about - but those other guys ??
feline
Reply #38 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 7:46 AM
Reply #38 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 7:46 AM
ashu modi - perhaps if u could put up a link JM. I couldn't find the thread u were talking bout.
the thread he means is called "Msgboard Chatroom Marathon", link:
https://www.wincustomize.com/msgboard.asp?id=30506
the thread he means is called "Msgboard Chatroom Marathon", link:
https://www.wincustomize.com/msgboard.asp?id=30506
wombat_1
Reply #39 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 7:58 AM
Reply #39 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 7:58 AM
Nah! That's already been done by the Chappelli brothers to EnZed! 
@shu
Reply #40 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 9:14 AM
Reply #40 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 9:14 AM
Thanx Feline.
Checked out the link, but JM was kind enough to put the poem on this thread.
And Ande, poetry is all about feeling, just read a line, close ur eyes and try to feel what the poet felt when he wrote it. 'Feel the verse throbbing in ur head' and appreciate the juggelry of the words.
Checked out the link, but JM was kind enough to put the poem on this thread.
And Ande, poetry is all about feeling, just read a line, close ur eyes and try to feel what the poet felt when he wrote it. 'Feel the verse throbbing in ur head' and appreciate the juggelry of the words.
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Reply #21 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:57 PM