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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Fuzzy Logic
Reply #3 Monday, December 16, 2002 1:54 PM
Reply #3 Monday, December 16, 2002 1:54 PM
Maybe you should start your own poetry thread so people know where to find them 
@shu
Reply #4 Monday, December 16, 2002 1:57 PM
Reply #4 Monday, December 16, 2002 1:57 PM
perhaps if u could put up a link JM. I couldn't find the thread u were talking bout. And by the way, thanks for the card, nice choice....
@shu
Reply #5 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:00 PM
Reply #5 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:00 PM
but would people respond?? Do u think that poetry still appeals to the average netizen???
Maybe Fuzzy Logic, u are an optimistic..
Maybe Fuzzy Logic, u are an optimistic..
wombat_1
Reply #6 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:04 PM
Reply #6 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:04 PM
After the performance of the 'English Cricket Team' I don't think there's much cause for optimism Ashu. 
'The boy stood on the burning deck, his pocket full of crackers' .........
'The boy stood on the burning deck, his pocket full of crackers' .........
@shu
Reply #7 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:09 PM
Reply #7 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:09 PM
But the English are a peculiar bunch, 'wot say chap?'
Three months of indiscriminate bombing in 1942 couldn't break their spirits, will losing 'The Ashes' the 7th (or is it the 8th) time in a row be enough???
Three months of indiscriminate bombing in 1942 couldn't break their spirits, will losing 'The Ashes' the 7th (or is it the 8th) time in a row be enough???
werewolf
Reply #8 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:16 PM
Reply #8 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:16 PM
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
- W.B. Yeats
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
- W.B. Yeats
Fuzzy Logic
Reply #9 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:18 PM
Reply #9 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:18 PM
The difference between us and them is we don't give a monkeys. After all, it's only a game. Might I remind you it was an Australian captain who burst into tears after loosing a test match Tough guys huh?
And Ashu's sentiment is right. We may loose, but we can never be beaten You might as well give in now before it ends in more tears... 
Tough guys huh?And Ashu's sentiment is right. We may loose, but we can never be beaten
You might as well give in now before it ends in more tears... 
@shu
Reply #10 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:18 PM
Reply #10 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:18 PM
Here's an excerpt from a personal favourite, ;The Charge of the Light Brigade' by Lord Alfred Tennyson
'
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'
'
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'
BoXXi
Reply #11 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:20 PM
Reply #11 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:20 PM
Poetry is alive and well.....it lives at DevianArt.com where it is overseen by one of the nicest people you will ever meet....Jsenn (Joy Senn).
And that's enough of the Brit bashing thank you! Remember....Some of us here ARE English......
And that's enough of the Brit bashing thank you! Remember....Some of us here ARE English......
werewolf
Reply #13 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:29 PM
Reply #13 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:29 PM
"Trees In The Garden" - D H Lawrence
Ah in the thunder air
how still the trees are!
And the lime-tree, lovely and tall, every leaf silent
hardly looses even a last breath of perfume.
And the ghostly, creamy coloured little tree of leaves
white, ivory white among the rambling greens
how evanescent, variegated elder, she hesitates on the green grass
as if, in another moment, she would disappear
with all her grace of foam!
And the larch that is only a column, it goes up too tall to see:
and the balsam-pines that are blue with the grey-blue blueness of
things from the sea,
and the young copper beech, its leaves red-rosy at the ends
how still they are together, they stand so still
in the thunder air, all strangers to one another
as the green grass glows upwards, strangers in the silent garden.
Ah in the thunder air
how still the trees are!
And the lime-tree, lovely and tall, every leaf silent
hardly looses even a last breath of perfume.
And the ghostly, creamy coloured little tree of leaves
white, ivory white among the rambling greens
how evanescent, variegated elder, she hesitates on the green grass
as if, in another moment, she would disappear
with all her grace of foam!
And the larch that is only a column, it goes up too tall to see:
and the balsam-pines that are blue with the grey-blue blueness of
things from the sea,
and the young copper beech, its leaves red-rosy at the ends
how still they are together, they stand so still
in the thunder air, all strangers to one another
as the green grass glows upwards, strangers in the silent garden.
@shu
Reply #14 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:30 PM
Reply #14 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:30 PM
Here's another personal favourite, one that suits the situation:
'
Where Knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into pieces,
By narrow domestic walls,
Into that heaven of freedom my Father,
Let my country prevail.
'
Anyone? The poet's name?
'
Where Knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into pieces,
By narrow domestic walls,
Into that heaven of freedom my Father,
Let my country prevail.
'
Anyone? The poet's name?
@shu
Reply #15 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:32 PM
Reply #15 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:32 PM
We kissed at the barrier; and passing through
She left me, and moment by moment got
Smaller and smaller, until to my view
...She was but a spot;
A wee white spot of muslin fluff
That down the diminishing platform bore
Through hustling crowds of gentle and rough
...To the carriage door.
Under the lamplight's fitful glowers,
Behind dark groups from far and near,
Whose interests were apart from ours,
...She would disappear,
Then show again, till I ceased to see
That flexible form, that nebulous white;
And she who was more than my life to me
...Had vanished quite. . .
We have penned new plans since that fair fond day,
And in season she will appear again--
Perhaps in the same soft white array--
...But never as then!
.....from On the Departure Platform by Thomas Hardy
She left me, and moment by moment got
Smaller and smaller, until to my view
...She was but a spot;
A wee white spot of muslin fluff
That down the diminishing platform bore
Through hustling crowds of gentle and rough
...To the carriage door.
Under the lamplight's fitful glowers,
Behind dark groups from far and near,
Whose interests were apart from ours,
...She would disappear,
Then show again, till I ceased to see
That flexible form, that nebulous white;
And she who was more than my life to me
...Had vanished quite. . .
We have penned new plans since that fair fond day,
And in season she will appear again--
Perhaps in the same soft white array--
...But never as then!
.....from On the Departure Platform by Thomas Hardy
Fuzzy Logic
Reply #16 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:36 PM
Reply #16 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:36 PM
The Official Dinner (Michelle Roberts)
The green glass throats of the wine
bottles moisten and perspire.
Waiters fastidious as priests
scoop up crumbs with tongs
off the white cloth.
Even plates wear collars.
How these old men fret and strut
waggling their chicken necks.
They nip and peck in polite
spite, shreik discreetly
jostling for the first strike.
The senator's trussed
in a silk suit
basted with cologne, his shirt-front
larded with pearl studs.
His eyelashes bat like a movie star's.
His hands are javelins and fans.
Three wives are strategically placed
as condiments, supposed
to pepper these
cross spouses with kind looks
spice them back into niceness.
What they need
is to be gagged with their napkins.
I shut my mouth, biting on
grilled aubergines'
delicious flesh and crackly
blackened skin.
It slips down easily.
The green glass throats of the wine
bottles moisten and perspire.
Waiters fastidious as priests
scoop up crumbs with tongs
off the white cloth.
Even plates wear collars.
How these old men fret and strut
waggling their chicken necks.
They nip and peck in polite
spite, shreik discreetly
jostling for the first strike.
The senator's trussed
in a silk suit
basted with cologne, his shirt-front
larded with pearl studs.
His eyelashes bat like a movie star's.
His hands are javelins and fans.
Three wives are strategically placed
as condiments, supposed
to pepper these
cross spouses with kind looks
spice them back into niceness.
What they need
is to be gagged with their napkins.
I shut my mouth, biting on
grilled aubergines'
delicious flesh and crackly
blackened skin.
It slips down easily.
Fuzzy Logic
Reply #17 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:42 PM
Reply #17 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:42 PM
The City (Betjeman)
Business men with awkward hips
And dirty jokes upon their lips,
And large behinds and jingling chains,
And plump round fingers made to curl
Round some anaemic city girl,
And so lend colour to theur lives
And old suspicions of their wives.
Young men who wear on office stools
The ties of minor public schools,
Each learning how to be a sinner
And tel a "good one" after dinner,
And so discover it is rather
Fun to go one more than father.
But father, son and clerk join up
To talk about the Football Cup.
Business men with awkward hips
And dirty jokes upon their lips,
And large behinds and jingling chains,
And plump round fingers made to curl
Round some anaemic city girl,
And so lend colour to theur lives
And old suspicions of their wives.
Young men who wear on office stools
The ties of minor public schools,
Each learning how to be a sinner
And tel a "good one" after dinner,
And so discover it is rather
Fun to go one more than father.
But father, son and clerk join up
To talk about the Football Cup.
Fuzzy Logic
Reply #18 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:52 PM
Reply #18 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:52 PM
March Morning
The covert morning opens demurely
Like an eruditic well worn page;
A fragile yellow first edition
Ruptured for the umpteenth time.
Silence flows like gushing streams
Down to where the still sheep fester.
Violent and irritated, it drowns
The dawn chorus provocateurs.
The antagonist opens fire -
Its devastation is complete.
The succubus is laid to rest,
Its frosty fingers melt like plastic -
A chuckle-headed cadaver
Debauched into an early grave.
The covert morning opens demurely
Like an eruditic well worn page;
A fragile yellow first edition
Ruptured for the umpteenth time.
Silence flows like gushing streams
Down to where the still sheep fester.
Violent and irritated, it drowns
The dawn chorus provocateurs.
The antagonist opens fire -
Its devastation is complete.
The succubus is laid to rest,
Its frosty fingers melt like plastic -
A chuckle-headed cadaver
Debauched into an early grave.
JamMeister33
Reply #19 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:53 PM
Reply #19 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:53 PM
Whew, that took some reading to catch up with everyone...
Fuzzy is right...poetry is alive and well at Deviantart.com!
Fuzzy is right...poetry is alive and well at Deviantart.com!
JamMeister33
Reply #20 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:55 PM
Reply #20 Monday, December 16, 2002 2:55 PM
#4160 by JamMeister33 - 12/16/2002 11:15:13 AM
Well, I can see that you're all overdue for a poem:
"Loveliest Of Trees
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take away from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow."
---A. E. Housman
Well, I can see that you're all overdue for a poem:
"Loveliest Of Trees
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take away from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow."
---A. E. Housman
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Reply #1 Monday, December 16, 2002 12:57 PM