spelling

[roboldham]

yes but the poetry is lost - QED

 

R

[Tannhauser]

It's from 'Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard' (I think that's the title) and it's a kind of fanfare for ordinary people, who lived out their lives in obscurity.

 

For example:

 

Their Lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone

Their growing Virtues, but their Crimes confin'd;

Forbad to wade through Slaughter to a Throne,

 

In other words, if Fate keeps ordinary people from doing great things, it also prevents them from doing terrible ones.

 

 

Far from the madding Crowd's ignoble Strife,

Their sober Wishes never learn'd to stray;

Along the cool sequester'd Vale of Life

They kept the noiseless Tenor of their Way.

 

 

So the 'common man' never learns to want to get away from the rabble, but is happy amongst them. The line was used for the title of Hardy's novel 'Far from the Madding Crowd'.

 

Yet ev'n these Bones from Insult to protect

Some frail Memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth Rhimes and shapeless Sculpture deck'd,

Implores the passing Tribute of a Sigh.

 

 

In other words, even the simplest soul has some sort of marking to 'protect' his remains, and though it might have a rubbish statue and simple verse, it's still capable of moving us, the observers.

 

I'm not very good at deciphering poetry either, I just enjoy it because I love the use of language.

 

About time we had some culture on here.

[Pete]

yes but the poetry is lost - QED

 

R

Whaaaat!? THAT was a poem? but it doesn't ryhme!

 

 

(yeah yeah I know poems don't have to ryhme)

[Pete]

I love the use of language.

So do I, but I don't want to have to use a the Enigma Machine to read it though.

[roboldham]

The problem with plonking "culture" of the written form on any forum is that most people scan read and hop from one screen to the next - it's an odd behaviour really - a kind of technology induced sub-concious panic that one should be doing something else instead...

 

Go on folks - how many people actually bothered to READ and DIGEST the interesting interpretation of Thomas Gray?

 

R

[Pete]

Go on folks - how many people actually bothered to READ and DIGEST the interesting interpretation of Thomas Gray?

 

R

I did. I even read the original.

[Tannhauser]

So do I, but I don't want to have to use a the Enigma Machine to read it though.

 

If you hadn't have started texting people, you'd still be able to understand it.

[Tannhauser]

Go on folks - how many people actually bothered to READ and DIGEST the interesting interpretation of Thomas Gray?

 

R

 

Not me.

[roboldham]

Not me.

 

Haha - or is that LOL?

 

R

[roboldham]

I did. I even read the original.

 

Well I should hope so - 'cos you posted the fuller version!

 

Hmm, maybe a poetry section would be a bad idea on here after all.

 

Does poetry come to mind when ones looks at a Supe - by all definitions of the word beauty, it should.

 

R

[black cat]

sorry edd you not a fat shit just a bit of banter:yu:

lovely chunky monkey... ..

 

rosie, no offence taken..

 

tt steve

[SupraStar 3000]

LOL, I know matey.

Just pullin ya chain.

 

btw: It wasn't your mum i saw naked on this forum, it was your DAD!

[RobSheffield]

It's from 'Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard' (I think that's the title) and it's a kind of fanfare for ordinary people, who lived out their lives in obscurity.

 

 

About time we had some culture on here.

 

Thank you

 

i was wondering who that was...

 

one of my favourites is called 'the listeners' by Walter De La Mere

 

'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,

Knocking on the moonlit door;

And his horse in the silence champed the grasses

Of the forest's ferny floor:

And a bird flew up out of the turret,

Above the Traveller's head

And he smote upon the door again a second time;

'Is there anybody there?' he said.

But no one descended to the Traveller;

No head from the leaf-fringed sill

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,

Where he stood perplexed and still.

But only a host of phantom listeners

That dwelt in the lone house then

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight

To that voice from the world of men:

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,

That goes down to the empty hall,

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken

By the lonely Traveller's call.

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,

Their stillness answering his cry,

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,

'Neath the starred and leafy sky;

For he suddenly smote on the door, even

Louder, and lifted his head:-

'Tell them I came, and no one answered,

That I kept my word,' he said.

Never the least stir made the listeners,

Though every word he spake

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house

From the one man left awake:

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,

And the sound of iron on stone,

And how the silence surged softly backward,

When the plunging hoofs were gone.

 

there is no explanation of it whatsoever, it just 'is'

[roboldham]

nice - reads better after a coupla brews too!

 

R

[Bill Prawn]

If it's poem time, this one is superb:)

 

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door

Only this, and nothing more."

 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow sorrow for the lost Lenore

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore

Nameless here for evermore.

 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;

This it is, and nothing more,"

 

Presently my heart grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you" -- here I opened wide the door;

Darkness there, and nothing more.

 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!"

Merely this and nothing more.

 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;

'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven.

Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door

Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

 

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered not a feather then he fluttered

Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before

On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never-nevermore.'"

 

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore

What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

 

Then, methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee

Respite - respite and nepenthe from the memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted

On this home by Horror haunted tell me truly, I implore

Is there is there balm in Gilead? tell me tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

 

"Prophet!' said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us by that God we both adore

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

 

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked upstarting

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

 

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted nevermore.

 

 

:thanku: :thanku:

[roboldham]

She stood on the bridge at midnight,

Her lips were all a quiver

She gave a cough

And her leg fell off

And floated down the river

 

R

[SupraStar 3000]

lmao

[Pete]

That's a lymerick not a poem.

[Charlotte]

:dir:

 

 

 

 

 

if we're going there....my favourite poem is....

 

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

 

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

 

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

 

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

[roboldham]

cripes I think I'm gonna drown my sorrows now

[Tannhauser]

A poetry thread on a car site? The World's gone mad! But in a good way.

 

I'm interested that 'Stop all the clocks' was posted, because one of my favourite poems is also by Auden ('Musee des Beaux Arts' ) and it takes a completely opposing view of death.

 

In "Stop all the clocks", the death of a loved one is enough to stop the world in its tracks. But in 'Musee', Auden says that no matter how grand or tragic the death, it usually means nothing to the rest of the world, which just carries on regardless.

 

The painting referred to, Brueghel's 'Icarus', is in the Musee Royaux des Beaux Arts de Belgique, hence the title.

 

Here we go, errrr-heeerrrr .

 

About suffering they were never wrong,

The Old Masters; how well, they understood

Its human position; how it takes place

While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;

How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting

For the miraculous birth, there always must be

Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating

On a pond at the edge of the wood:

They never forgot

That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course

Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot

Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse

Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

 

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away

Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may

Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,

But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone

As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green

Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen

Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,

had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

[Charlotte]

I love that one too. We did Auden in English, well done for posting the poet's name by the way, forgot to put that down.

 

Am officially loving this thread now.

[Bill Prawn]

She stood on the bridge at midnight,

Her lips were all a quiver

She gave a cough

And her leg fell off

And floated down the river

 

R

 

 

Dedicated to Heather McCartney:tumble:

[Tannhauser]

Dedicated to Heather McCartney:tumble:

 

I don't like her - I think she's just using Paul as a crutch.

[roboldham]

oh dear...

 

R