My Favorite Poems

[Garlic Breath]

STONED IMMACULATE

I'll tell you this...
No eternal reward will forgive us now
For wasting the dawn.
Back in those days everything was simpler and more confused
One summer night, going to the pier
I ran into two young girls
The blonde one was called Freedom
The dark one, Enterprise
We talked and they told me this story
Now listen to this...
I'll tell you about Texas radio and the big beat
Soft driven, slow and mad
Like some new language
Reaching your head with the cold, sudden fury of
a divine messenger
Let me tell you about heartache and the loss of god
Wandering, wandering in hopless night
Out here in the perimeter there are no stars
Out here we is stoned
Immaculate.


NEWBORN AWAKENING

Gently they stir, gently rise
The dead are newborn awakening
With ravaged limbs and wet souls
Gently they sigh in rapt funeral amazement
Who called these dead to dance?
Was it the young woman learning to play the ghost song
on her baby grand?
Was it the wilderness children?
Was it the ghost god himself, stuttering, cheering,
chatting blindly?
I called you up to anoint the earth
I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
I called you to wish you well
To glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray

These are just a couple of my favorite poems. I wonder if anyone can guess who the author of these two timeless ditties is.tup:

[baldbantam]

I could google, but otherwise I have no clue.

Educate me.

[wykie]

The Doors

[Garlic Breath]

The voyeur, the peeper, the Peeping Tom is a dark
comedian. He is repulsive in his dark anonymity,
in his secret invasion. He is pitifully alone.
But, strangely, he is able through this same silence
and concealment to make unknowing partner of anyone
within his eye's range. This is his threat and
power.

There are no glass houses. The shades are drawn
and "real" life begins. Some activities are impossible
in the open. And these secret events are the voyeur's
game. He seeks them out with his myriad army of
eyes -- like the child's notion of a Deity who sees
all. "Everything?" asks the child. "Yes, every-
thing," they answer, and the child is left to cope
with this divine intrusion.

I always think of Jante for some reason when I read this. I know its not your "usual" kind of Poetry due to its abstract timing and phrasing but it is powerfull all the same. The guy who wrote this had a somewhat tortured mind for a Poet,so that kind of narrows it down to a few 100,000.

[Spoonhead]

A favourite of mine:
We Are Seven William Wordsworth

A Simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
--Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

[Mallorcabantam]

"The guy who wrote this had a somewhat tortured mind for a Poet,so that kind of narrows it down to a few 100,000"

Out of 100.000 this great tortured minds
This guy is way out front---

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 name 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 soul 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 mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness 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 a minute 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 blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon 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 he will 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 fancy 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, ghastly, 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 lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he
hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy 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 name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in 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 lamplight 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!



by Edgar Allan Poe (1845)

[Parrot]

That was the Simpsons wasn't it?:rolleyes: :D

[Garlic Breath]

Christ....some folk have no sense of culture:rolleyes:
Stick to Razzle mantup:

[Jantje simoen]

I feel honoured you think of me with the poetry......should I? and was Stoned Immaculate by The Lizard King himself Mr. Jim Morrison

[Garlic Breath]

Top prize of a big splifter to Mr Janteman.tup:
I bet you've just ordered An American Prayer on cd from Amazon.tup:

[Jantje simoen]

Got it on vinyl & CD PK, inspired listening i'm sure you agree

[Garlic Breath]

Oh aye indeed. If you have seen Oliver Stones epic film "The Doors" you will recall some of the very first scenes feature Jim Morrison actually recording An American Prayer. Or should I say some of the poetry that was some years later to become An American Prayer.
Studio technician : "Ok Jim thats a wrap"
Morrison : "Great....lets go get some Tacos"
That has to be one of the finest opening lines in Motion Picture history do you not agree?
Vearing a little of topic here but I do feel vindicated in the fact that Stones cerebral masterpiece warrants some praise here.
The Doors film has been slated by some as being quite far from the truth,in such that events were portrayed as happening when in fact they did not. The remaining members of The Doors have indeed gone on record as to this effect and have distanced themselves from said film.

I have read just about every book going about Morrison and The Doors,have all the videos and DVD's ect so I do feel I'm somewhat qualified in saying that in my humble opinion of course that Oliver Stones work of art The Doors is 95% fact and 5% artisic license.

Morrison was indeed a cunt to his bird (Pamela Courson) as the film shows and there lies the crux of the matter to me. The "Jim Morrison was a God and had no dark side and could do no bad" brigade always chant the same mantra when this subject is broached.
They cry the film is fatally flawed in that its simply not very true!
The very notion of that defiles Stones defining work as a fake....a forgery....a deception.
This idea is quite frankly ludicrous and as Jim would say....a bunch of bullshit. Morrison did indeed do bad things and was not the bronzed Greek Adonis that alot would like him remembered as. He had a dark side like the rest of us and that made him human just like the rest of us.

Anyway I rate the film highly as the first time I watched it was the first time I did LSD (more prevalent then compared to now).:eek:

[Dr Wisey]

There are several totured souls around VP and this website

[Garlic Breath]

Thats it?...thats fucking it?......Says alot about probably one of the most constructive and well thought out posts I have ever made in 7 years of posting on places like this.
Remind me not to bother next time eh.:rolleyes:...maybe I should have been racist and slagged someone off then?

[baldbantam]

No, absolutely not.

Not exactly poetry, but I like a lot of Shakespeares speeches. Most people know just the first couple of lines, but there is some beautiful use of language and capturing of emotions if you read further on.

This speech, know variously as the Crispin's Day speech or the Band of Brothers speech, is the one which Shakespeare has Henry V say to rouse his troops before the battle of Agincourt in 1415.

You can see it performed quite brilliantly by Kenneth Branagh in this clip:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z399i_PksfU

This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

[baldbantam]

I remember learning this in English class 25 years ago (that makes me feel old).

John Milton

On His Blindness

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies,
"God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts.
Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."

[baldbantam]

Julius Caeser Act 3, Scene 2

Mark Anthony, Caesers' best friend, has just found out that Caeser has been murdered by Brutus and the band of conspirators from the Senate, who have staged a coup. He addresses the crowd in the square:

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest -
For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men -
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.

[Garlic Breath]

Have you always been boring?:D :D

[baldbantam]

I've always been intelligent enough to appreciate classical literature, if that's what you mean. Strangely enough, I thought you were probably intelligent enough to appreciate it as well. My mistake. :p

[Garlic Breath]

I did ya old fool..I was having a Giraffe:rolleyes:
Have you read Kubla Khan (revised version) which was translated by Omar Williams in 1996?....its far superior in lateral phrasing,stormatation and all round catch ability than the original.
Thats just the viewpoint of an illiterate mumblepeg of course.:D

[tony d]

The Soldier
Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.




The Last Laugh-Wilfred Owen

'Oh! Jesus Christ! I'm hit,' he said; and died.
Whether he vainly cursed or prayed indeed,
The Bullets chirped-In vain, vain, vain!
Machine-guns chuckled,-Tut-tut! Tut-tut!
And the Big Gun guffawed.


Another sighed,-'O Mother, -Mother, - Dad!'
Then smiled at nothing, childlike, being dead.
And the lofty Shrapnel-cloud
Leisurely gestured,-Fool!
And the splinters spat, and tittered.


'My Love!' one moaned. Love-languid seemed his mood,
Till slowly lowered, his whole faced kissed the mud.
And the Bayonets' long teeth grinned;
Rabbles of Shells hooted and groaned;
And the Gas hissed.

[meelin]

No, absolutely not.

Not exactly poetry, but I like a lot of Shakespeares speeches. Most people know just the first couple of lines, but there is some beautiful use of language and capturing of emotions if you read further on.

This speech, know variously as the Crispin's Day speech or the Band of Brothers speech, is the one which Shakespeare has Henry V say to rouse his troops before the battle of Agincourt in 1415.

You can see it performed quite brilliantly by Kenneth Branagh in this clip:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z399i_PksfU



I prefer the above version to the one made in Independence Day:D

[Johnny Yen]

I feel honoured you think of me with the poetry......should I? and was Stoned Immaculate by The Lizard King himself Mr. Jim Morrison

A few months ago I was in a local pub up my way. They had a karaoke on, all the songs getting sung were the run of the mill popular karaoke stuff. All the tarts doing Whitney and the lads doing Robbie. I had a look through the song book and spotted 'Roadhouse blues' by the Doors. Now I've a shit voice but fuelled with ale I really gave it some and with the help of Jim Morrison's spirit, we got the pub rocking, They nearly got LA Woman, however the mic was wrestled off me hahaha !!!

[Jantje simoen]

A few months ago I was in a local pub up my way. They had a karaoke on, all the songs getting sung were the run of the mill popular karaoke stuff. All the tarts doing Whitney and the lads doing Robbie. I had a look through the song book and spotted 'Roadhouse blues' by the Doors. Now I've a shit voice but fuelled with ale I really gave it some and with the help of Jim Morrison's spirit, we got the pub rocking, They nearly got LA Woman, however the mic was wrestled off me hahaha !!!

Top man JY, wish i'd been there to see it, my claim to Karaoke fame was at the works Christmas do at the Mucky Duck in Frizinghall doing Light My Fire!!!, i think i was as pi**ed as Mr Morrison that night & well out of tune but for a few drunken minutes i was singing with the Doors:D