Poetry

Packerjohn said:
I love the old traditional poems by people like Robert Frost, William Wordsworth and Edgar Allan Poe. Not really in that "Japanese Stuff." Here is my kind of poem:

Annabel Lee​

Edgar Allan Poe - 1809-1849
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Click to expand...
I generally stay in my lane (which is Shel Silverstein) when it comes to poetry, but I do love this particular one.
 
Packerjohn said:
You really can't go wrong with Edgar Allan Poe. Good poetry to read on a cold, windy night with rain hitting the window panes.
Click to expand...
Okay, that one too. I do love, "The Raven." Shel Silverstein, "Annabelle Lee," and "The Raven."
LOL
And Wilfred Owen's World War II Poem, "Dulce et Decorum Est"
 
https://www.abrahamlincolnonline.org/lincoln/speeches/poetry.htm
Poetry Written by Abraham Lincoln
Springfield, Illinois
In the spring of 1846 Abraham Lincoln sent some poetry to his friend Andrew Johnston, and on September 6 enclosed additional stanzas with his letter. At Lincoln's request, Johnston published portions of the poetry anonymously in the Quincy, Illinois Whig on May 5, 1847.
Lincoln offered Johnston an explanation of the first poem ("My Childhood Home I See Again"), saying he had visited his boyhood neighborhood in southern Indiana in the fall of 1844 while campaigning for presidential hopeful Henry Clay. He commented that the region was "as unpoetical as any spot of the earth," but it brought back memories of loved ones such as his mother and sister who lay buried there.
He made Matthew Gentry the subject of Part II, telling Johnston: "He is three years older than I, and when we were boys we went to school together. He was rather a bright lad, and the son of the rich man of our poor neighborhood. At the age of nineteen he unaccountably became furiously mad, from which condition he gradually settled down into harmless insanity. When, as I told you in my other letter I visited my old home in the fall of 1844, I found him still lingering in this wretched condition. In my poetizing mood I could not forget the impression his case made upon me."
 
Bairnsang (Kids poem) by Liz Lochhead.

It wis January 

and a gey driech day 

the first day Ah went to the school

so my Mum happed me up in ma

good navy-blue napp coat wi the rid tartan hood 

birled a scarf aroon ma neck

pu’ed oan ma pixie an’ my pawkies

it wis that bitter 

said noo ye’ll no starve 

gie’d me a wee kiss and a kid-oan skelp oan the bum 

and sent me aff across the playground

tae the place A’d learn to say

it was January 

and a really dismal day

the first day I went to school 

so my mother wrapped me up in my 

best navy-blue top coat with the red tartan hood, 

twirled a scarf around my neck,

pulled on my bobble-hat and mittens 

it was so bitterly cold
said now you won’t freeze to death
gave me a little kiss and a pretend slap on the bottom 

and sent me off across the playground 

to the place I’d learn to forget to say

it wis January 

and a gey driech day

the first day Ah went to the school 

so my Mum happed me up in ma 

good navy-blue napp coat wi the rid tartan hood,

birled a scarf aroon ma neck,

pu’ed oan ma pixie and’ ma pawkies 

it wis that bitter. 


Oh saying it was one thing

But when it came to writing it

In black and white

The way it had to be said 

Was as if you were posh, grown-up,
male, English and dead.
 
A Shropshire Lad by Sir John Betjeman

The gas was on in the Institute,
The flare was up in the gym,
A man was running a mineral line,
A lass was singing a hymn,
When Captain Webb the Dawley man,
Captain Webb from Dawley,
Came swimming along the old canal
That carried the bricks to Lawley.
Swimming along—
Swimming along—
Swimming along from Severn,
And paying a call at Dawley Bank while swimming along to Heaven.

The sun shone low on the railway line
And over the bricks and stacks
And in at the upstairs windows
Of the Dawley houses’ backs
When we saw the ghost of Captain Webb,
Webb in a water sheeting,
Come dripping along in a bathing dress
To the Saturday evening meeting.
Dripping along—
Dripping along—
To the Congregational Hall;
Dripping and still he rose over the sill and faded away in a wall.

There wasn’t a man in Oakengates
That hadn’t got hold of the tale,
And over the valley in Ironbridge,
And round by Coalbrookdale,
How Captain Webb the Dawley man,
Captain Webb from Dawley,
Rose rigid and dead from the old canal
That carries the bricks to Lawley.
Rigid and dead—
Rigid and dead—
To the Saturday congregation,
Paying a call at Dawley Bank on the way to his destination.
 
Ascension

by Du Fu (712-770)


Among the violent wind,
under the high sky,
the monkeys howl their sadness.
Above the white sands of the islet,
a bird flies, circling.
Endless leaves, blown by the wind,
they fall whistling from the trees,
and the immense Yangtze runs tumultuously.
Far from my home
I cry the sad autumn
and the trips seem endless to me.
Old man, alone overwhelmed with disease,
I go up to this terrace.
The hardships, difficulties and anguish,
they have made my gray hair abundant.
And I can't help but put my glass aside.

https://www.actualidadliteratura.com/en/du-fu-5-poemas-clasico-poesia-china/
 
This guy wrote quite a few poems, some very bad, some a bit better and then there is this one:

"Through a Glass, Darkly"
General George S. Patton, Jr.

Through the travail of the ages,
Midst the pomp and toil of war,
I have fought and strove and perished
Countless times upon this star.

In the form of many people
In all panoplies of time
Have I seen the luring vision
Of the Victory Maid, sublime.

I have battled for fresh mammoth,
I have warred for pastures new,
I have listed to the whispers
When the race trek instinct grew.

I have known the call to battle
In each changeless changing shape
From the high souled voice of conscience
To the beastly lust for rape.

I have sinned and I have suffered,
Played the hero and the knave;
Fought for belly, shame, or country,
And for each have found a grave.

I cannot name my battles
For the visions are not clear,
Yet, I see the twisted faces
And I feel the rending spear.

Perhaps I stabbed our Savior
In His sacred helpless side.
Yet, I've called His name in blessing
When after times I died.

In the dimness of the shadows
Where we hairy heathens warred,
I can taste in thought the lifeblood;
We used teeth before the sword.

While in later clearer vision
I can sense the coppery sweat,
Feel the pikes grow wet and slippery
When our Phalanx, Cyrus met.

Hear the rattle of the harness
Where the Persian darts bounced clear,
See their chariots wheel in panic
From the Hoplite's leveled spear.

See the goal grow monthly longer,
Reaching for the walls of Tyre.
Hear the crash of tons of granite,
Smell the quenchless eastern fire.

Still more clearly as a Roman,
Can I see the Legion close,
As our third rank moved in forward
And the short sword found our foes.

Once again I feel the anguish
Of that blistering treeless plain
When the Parthian showered death bolts,
And our discipline in vain.

I remember all the suffering
Of those arrows in my neck.
Yet, I stabbed a grinning savage
As I died upon my back.

Once again I smell the heat sparks
When my Flemish plate gave way
And the lance ripped through my entrails
As on Crecy's field I lay.

In the windless, blinding stillness
Of the glittering tropic sea
I can see the bubbles rising
Where we set the captives free.

Midst the spume of half a tempest
I have heard the bulwarks go
When the crashing, point blank round shot
Sent destruction to our foe.

I have fought with gun and cutlass
On the red and slippery deck
With all Hell aflame within me
And a rope around my neck.

And still later as a General
Have I galloped with Murat
When we laughed at death and numbers
Trusting in the Emperor's Star.

Till at last our star had faded,
And we shouted to our doom
Where the sunken road of Ohein
Closed us in it's quivering gloom.

So but now with Tanks a'clatter
Have I waddled on the foe
Belching death at twenty paces,
By the star shell's ghastly glow.

So as through a glass, and darkly
The age long strife I see
Where I fought in many guises,
Many names, but always me.

And I see not in my blindness
What the objects were I wrought,
But as God rules o'er our bickerings
It was through His will I fought.

So forever in the future,
Shall I battle as of yore,
Dying to be born a fighter,
But to die again, once more.

*****

Love this poem! I took the liberty of dropping one word in a line and then in another place, adding one word in a line.

I think I helped the rhythm with those two minor swaps.

George S. Patton was really an interesting type o' fella. Hated by many people and yet conversely, worshipped as God-Like by many others.

U.V.
 

You must log in or register to reply here.

Back
Top