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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feline
Reply #42 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 10:09 AM
Reply #42 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 10:09 AM
ashu modi - 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.
feline *confused*
reading these poems, all i feel is confused, since the words don't seem to flow. no pictures are forming in my head.
feline speculates understanding poetry was one of the classes i didn't do at school
feline *confused*
reading these poems, all i feel is confused, since the words don't seem to flow. no pictures are forming in my head.
feline speculates understanding poetry was one of the classes i didn't do at school
werewolf
Reply #43 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 11:03 AM
Reply #43 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 11:03 AM
Still I Rise
Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
There 'ya go Feline...That one should be plain enough
Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
There 'ya go Feline...That one should be plain enough
@shu
Reply #44 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 11:11 AM
Reply #44 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 11:11 AM
feline -
feline *confused*
reading these poems, all i feel is confused, since the words don't seem to flow. no pictures are forming in my head.
feline speculates understanding poetry was one of the classes i didn't do at school
feline, you don't need to take classes to appreciate poetry, you just need to feel the texture of the verse and make your own deductions. A poem can have varied meanings for different people: that's the way language is.
Feel the flow, feline, and prepared to be swept away.
feline *confused*
reading these poems, all i feel is confused, since the words don't seem to flow. no pictures are forming in my head.
feline speculates understanding poetry was one of the classes i didn't do at school
feline, you don't need to take classes to appreciate poetry, you just need to feel the texture of the verse and make your own deductions. A poem can have varied meanings for different people: that's the way language is.
Feel the flow, feline, and prepared to be swept away.
JamMeister33
Reply #45 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 11:45 AM
"Lullaby
Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles awake you when you rise.
Sleep, pretty wantons; do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby:
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
Care is heavy, therefore sleep you;
You are care, and care must keep you.
Sleep, pretty wantons; do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby:
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
--- Thomas Dekker
Reply #45 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 11:45 AM
"Lullaby
Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles awake you when you rise.
Sleep, pretty wantons; do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby:
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
Care is heavy, therefore sleep you;
You are care, and care must keep you.
Sleep, pretty wantons; do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby:
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
--- Thomas Dekker
goodmorphing
Reply #46 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 1:03 PM
Reply #46 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 1:03 PM
Well, the only thing I can find about the backwards poem was that the author was unknown. Here is the complete version:
The famous speaker who no one had heard of said:
Ladies and jellyspoons, hobos and tramps,
cross-eyed mosquitos and bow-legged ants,
I stand before you to sit behind you
to tell you something I know nothing about.
Next Thursday, which is Good Friday,
there's a Mother's Day meeting for fathers only;
wear your best clothes if you haven't any.
Please come if you can't; if you can, stay at home.
Admission is free, pay at the door;
pull up a chair and sit on the floor.
It makes no difference where you sit,
the man in the gallery's sure to spit.
The show is over, but before you go,
let me tell you a story I don't really know.
One bright day in the middle of the night,
two dead boys got up to fight.
(The blind man went to see fair play;
the mute man went to shout "hooray!")
Back to back they faced each other,
drew their swords and shot each other.
A deaf policeman heard the noise,
and came and killed the two dead boys.
A paralysed donkey passing by
kicked the blind man in the eye;
knocked him through a nine-inch wall,
into a dry ditch and drowned them all.
If you don't believe this lie is true,
ask the blind man; he saw it too,
through a knothole in a wooden brick wall.
And the man with no legs walked away.
The famous speaker who no one had heard of said:
Ladies and jellyspoons, hobos and tramps,
cross-eyed mosquitos and bow-legged ants,
I stand before you to sit behind you
to tell you something I know nothing about.
Next Thursday, which is Good Friday,
there's a Mother's Day meeting for fathers only;
wear your best clothes if you haven't any.
Please come if you can't; if you can, stay at home.
Admission is free, pay at the door;
pull up a chair and sit on the floor.
It makes no difference where you sit,
the man in the gallery's sure to spit.
The show is over, but before you go,
let me tell you a story I don't really know.
One bright day in the middle of the night,
two dead boys got up to fight.
(The blind man went to see fair play;
the mute man went to shout "hooray!")
Back to back they faced each other,
drew their swords and shot each other.
A deaf policeman heard the noise,
and came and killed the two dead boys.
A paralysed donkey passing by
kicked the blind man in the eye;
knocked him through a nine-inch wall,
into a dry ditch and drowned them all.
If you don't believe this lie is true,
ask the blind man; he saw it too,
through a knothole in a wooden brick wall.
And the man with no legs walked away.
Bangkokboy
Reply #47 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 1:08 PM
Reply #47 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 1:08 PM
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep
R. Frost
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep
R. Frost
JamMeister33
Reply #48 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 1:50 PM
Walk Between The Raindrops
"A shadow crossed the blue Miami sky
As we hit the causeway by the big hotels
We fought
Now I can't remember why
After all the words were said and the tears were gone
We vowed we'd never say goodbye
When we kissed we could hear the sound of thunder
As we watched the regulars rush the big hotels
We kissed again as the showers swept away the Florida shore
You opened your umbrella
But we walked between the raindrops back to your door
In my dreams I can hear the sound of thunder
I can see the causeway by the big hotels
That happy day we'll find each other on that Florida shore
You'll open your umbrella
And we'll walk between the raindrops back to your door"
--- Donald Fagen and Walter Becker
Reply #48 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 1:50 PM
Walk Between The Raindrops
"A shadow crossed the blue Miami sky
As we hit the causeway by the big hotels
We fought
Now I can't remember why
After all the words were said and the tears were gone
We vowed we'd never say goodbye
When we kissed we could hear the sound of thunder
As we watched the regulars rush the big hotels
We kissed again as the showers swept away the Florida shore
You opened your umbrella
But we walked between the raindrops back to your door
In my dreams I can hear the sound of thunder
I can see the causeway by the big hotels
That happy day we'll find each other on that Florida shore
You'll open your umbrella
And we'll walk between the raindrops back to your door"
--- Donald Fagen and Walter Becker
Ande
Reply #49 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 10:15 PM
Reply #49 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 10:15 PM
I closed my eyes and all I saw was JM33's desktop. That was a good poem James, but they must have been a skinny couple.
UBoB
Reply #50 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 10:25 PM
Reply #50 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 10:25 PM
You fit into me
like a hook into an eye.
A fish hook,
An open eye...
-Margaret Atwood
like a hook into an eye.
A fish hook,
An open eye...
-Margaret Atwood
JamMeister33
Reply #51 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 10:33 PM
Reply #51 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 10:33 PM
Well, Ande all you have to do is download Jafo's picture from DA and make it YOUR desktop.... 
And that is a song from Donal Fagen's solo album called 'Nightfly'
wouldn't expect you to know it though, great song.
And that is a song from Donal Fagen's solo album called 'Nightfly'
wouldn't expect you to know it though, great song.
JamMeister33
Reply #52 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 10:43 PM
Reply #52 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 10:43 PM
Lady Of The Dancing Water
"Grass in your hair stretched like a lion in the sun
Restlessly turned moistened your mouth with your tongue.
Pouring my wine your eyes caged mine glowing
Touching your face my fingers strayed knowing.
I called you lady of the dancing water.
Blown autumn leaves shed to the fire where you laid me
Burn slow to ash just as my days now seem to be.
I feel you still always your eyes glowing
Remembered hours salt, earth and flowers flowing.
Farewell my lady of the dancing water."
--- Peter Sinfield
"Grass in your hair stretched like a lion in the sun
Restlessly turned moistened your mouth with your tongue.
Pouring my wine your eyes caged mine glowing
Touching your face my fingers strayed knowing.
I called you lady of the dancing water.
Blown autumn leaves shed to the fire where you laid me
Burn slow to ash just as my days now seem to be.
I feel you still always your eyes glowing
Remembered hours salt, earth and flowers flowing.
Farewell my lady of the dancing water."
--- Peter Sinfield
@shu
Reply #53 Wednesday, December 18, 2002 4:55 AM
Reply #53 Wednesday, December 18, 2002 4:55 AM
Maybe you see poetry in JM's desktop. Bravo! Ande 
Ande
Reply #54 Wednesday, December 18, 2002 6:15 AM
Reply #54 Wednesday, December 18, 2002 6:15 AM
"Marriage is like life in this - that it is a field of battle, and not a bed of roses"(RLS). Its a bed of roses at the moment, if I used that desktop? - well enough said. 
Jafo
Reply #55 Wednesday, December 18, 2002 6:55 AM
Reply #55 Wednesday, December 18, 2002 6:55 AM
Doctor Seuss...for that backwards poem, perhaps?...
UBoB
Reply #56 Wednesday, December 18, 2002 7:23 AM
Reply #56 Wednesday, December 18, 2002 7:23 AM
Another e.e. cummings poem....for that backwards feel .....
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did
Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.
Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
.....anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did
Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.
Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
SkinneRyan
Reply #57 Wednesday, December 18, 2002 9:57 AM
Reply #57 Wednesday, December 18, 2002 9:57 AM
What is a backwards poem?
And more importantly, how did you all manage to get poetry and cricket in the same topic?
And more importantly, how did you all manage to get poetry and cricket in the same topic?
@shu
Reply #58 Wednesday, December 18, 2002 12:00 PM
Reply #58 Wednesday, December 18, 2002 12:00 PM
Dear Ryan,
Cricket is poetry, its poetry when Jonty dives to save a run, it is poetry when Murali bowls a flipper or McGrath hits the stump. And Ryan, its sheer poetry when a ball hits the middle of Sachin's bat.
Cricket is poetry, its poetry when Jonty dives to save a run, it is poetry when Murali bowls a flipper or McGrath hits the stump. And Ryan, its sheer poetry when a ball hits the middle of Sachin's bat.
JamMeister33
Reply #59 Wednesday, December 18, 2002 12:07 PM
Reply #59 Wednesday, December 18, 2002 12:07 PM
To paraphrase a famous quotation..."Poetry is in the eye of the beholder..."
Or as my Momma used to say..."Poetry is like a box of chocolates..."
Or as my Momma used to say..."Poetry is like a box of chocolates..."
@shu
Reply #60 Wednesday, December 18, 2002 12:54 PM
Reply #60 Wednesday, December 18, 2002 12:54 PM
JM, you have been hanging too long on the site. Get a life man
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Reply #41 Tuesday, December 17, 2002 9:50 AM
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Lewis Carroll
One of my favourites.