Poems...

[Romanos]

rome ac, is you poem at all influenced by MacBeth? Just a thought..

Yes, it was for english class.

 

[Tom Paine]

Yes, it was for english class.

It was the "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
All my tomorrows..." speech I was tihnking of... hehe. Good to be right :laughing:

 

[wilpuri]

Hmm may be you've already seen this one:

The Ancient

My crown is green, against the sky
My roots run deep into the dark soil
My skin has seen many seasons pass by
My eyes see a world, to be destroyed

I am an ancient, still standing strong
Yet, I feel the strange winds of a new age
The old has shrivelled, fallen dead, long-gone
I see the axes, wishing to make me the new page
Tear me out of my native earth, I don't belong.

With each season that passes,
With each new moon that waxes
The Earth groans under my banes
As they grow, my kingdom wanes.

I convince myself, it is only fall
The world will grow cold and dark,
Slumber on, waiting for a spark!
Spring will find me still standing tall.

 

[Tom Paine]

Yours, wilpuri? If so we have an abundance of poets.

 

[wilpuri]

Yours, wilpuri? If so we have an abundance of poets.

Mine, but I wouldn't call myself a poet. :wink:

 

[Zuwxiv]

Mine, but I wouldn't call myself a poet. :wink:

He's a poet, and he doesn't know it!

(I've got a PHD in Cheesy.)

 

[Tom Paine]

Mine, but I wouldn't call myself a poet. :wink:

Neither would I, but I'd call you one

 

[Garbarsardar]

Roman land
Of Roman sands
And Roman sons.
As I watch the sun
sink down
On the bloodred edge
Of the bloodred town
There are shadows
for sale
On the edge of town
At the edge of the night
Is a darkness seen
From the side
of the light
(From the side
of the night).
And the winds
blow round
this sleeping town
This sleeping town
This Roman land
Of Roman sands
And Roman sons.
And it seems to me
That when I
close my eyes
All the lights in the world
Go out
And the night
passes by
And you whisper to me
A thousand lies
I stare in surprise
Towards the desert's
warm black
And the desert stirs
And the desert stares
back
With a thousand eyes
Piercing eyes
Ancient eyes
And I ask my lover
"Do you know
Where the desert roses
bloom and grow?"

Slur-Coil

 

[Aristophanes]

Wilpuri pretty much rocks! I love the poesie Wili!!!!

 

[wilpuri]

Wilpuri pretty much rocks! I love the poesie Wili!!!!

Thank you. I am really quite flattered, I never thought people would actually bother to comment. In most things I do I am faced by a dilemma: I have bursts of eager creativity, or let's say bursts of eagerness to be creative, you know, to write, to draw, create. It is just that the realization of my desire is always somewhat dodgy and is usually better left unpublished..

But I'm glad you liked it. riginal:

 

[Tom Paine]

Your definition of dodgy will be harsher than ours because everyone's harshest critic is themselves.

 

[Aristophanes]

Your definition of dodgy will be harsher than ours because everyone's harshest critic is themselves.

With a few notable exceptions...lol.

 

[Siblesz]

Another one:

The Drop
Life spawns from the origin of a river.
Starting as a drop, it gains
Strength and becomes the giver
Of fruit, the molder of the main.
Currents flow through the basin
As the drop navigates with the flow.
The drop of life moves on, facing
The coming journey as it grows.
The river's end is looming. The mouth,
Showing through the morning's eye,
Signals an ending to the drouth.
It has come. The ocean lies
Eternal; there are no more walls.
The drop enters, and it falls.

 

[Silver Guard]

Have you thought of putting these in at fictionpress? You'd get alot more reviews and meet more poets...like me!
@The Grim Squeaker- You are forgetting the all too many people who think they have been chosen to rule the Earth...George Bush for example...I can't imagine them critisising themselves too harshly

 

[Tom Paine]

All right, most of us are our harshest critics...

 

[Nihil]

Here are two poems by Li Po. They both have the same name, strangely enough, and they are both strikingly vivid evocations of the timeless inanity of war.


War South of the Great Wall

War last year at the Sang-kan's headquarters,
war this year on the roads at Ts'ung river:

we've rinsed weapons clean in T'iao-chih sea-swells,
pastured horses in T'ien Mountain's snowbound grasses,

war in ten-thousand mile campaigns
leaving our three armies old and broken,

but the Hsiung-nu have made slaughter their own version of ploughing.
It never changes: nothing since ancient times but bleached bones in fields of yellow sand.

A Ch'in emperor built the Great Wall to seal Mongols out,
and still, in the Han, we're settnig beacon fires ablaze.

Beacon fires ablaze everlasting,
no end to forced marches and war,

it's fight to the death in outland war,
wounded horses wailing, crying out toward heaven,

hawks and crows tearing at people,
lifting off to scatter dangling entrails in dying trees.

Tangled grasses lie matted with death,
but generals keep at it. And for what?

Isn't it clear that weapons are the tools of misery?
The great sages never waited until the need for such things arose.



War South of the Great Wall

Delirium, battlefields all dark and delirium,
convulsions of men swarm like armies of ants.

A red wheel in thickened air, the sun hangs
above bramble and weed blood's dyed purple,

and crows, their beaks clutching warrior guts,
struggle at flight, grief-glutted, earthbound.

Those on guard atop the Great Wall yesterday
became ghosts in its shadow today. And still,

flags bright everywhere like scattered stars,
the slaughter keeps on. War-drums throbbing:

my husband, my sons - you'll find them all
there, out where war-drums keep throbbing.

 

[Punkus]

If this poem has been posted, then feel free to delete this post. However I was unable to find it in a search of the thread.

Anyway, without further ado I bring:

Jabberwocky
From Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872
By Lewis Carroll​

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.​

Peace be with you. riginal:

 

[PyrrhusIV]

I suppose this is moreso lyrics that I wrote than a poem, but whatever, someone said it sounded like one and should post it.

it tempts you, takes you
you want it so bad, always craving it
always needing it

grasping the sanity of your mind
looking for someone who is kind

the urge, you cant escape it,
might as well embrace it

the escape can be futile
might as well submit
your urge to your
own unstoppable purge

 

[Siblesz]

A new poem. Work in progress.

Pensive Perdition

Sitting in the corner of a hall,
Silence envelops as it hides
Within the confines of the skull.
A Russian's waltz swiftly tides
To whisteling flakes that greet the flow.
Thoughts of bliss follow
Through the awakening fall of snow.
Light pierces through as shadows
Ominuosly hide and shades furtively hive
Into patterns on the floor.
Curving winds of night's demure
Strive to move the storm's galore
As grazen country meets the lure.
The mind and matter of the soul
Compound as grains of sand in shores.
As spirits dance along the shore,
The conscience rises from the glow
That leads symphonic
Rhythm quick at pace, and strolls
Melodious tone safe at bay through frantic
storms of violent stray. Flakes attempt to blind,
But nay, they bind! As winds
Fight in nature's plight, and evil finds
A vine to climb, once withdrawn
And once in view, a cosmic soothe
Unites in two, cursing few
From one great lie to one great truth:
All is one, one is all, and all is new.

Comments?

 

[Silver Guard]

Heres a few of mine, this thread is NOT leaving the front page:

Depression is a terrible thing
That can affect beggar or king
Leaving them with shallow heart and mind
With thoughts neither good or kind
Withering away, lonely still
A sadness so dark it can kill
With slitted wrists and thoughtless jumps
Leaving broken bodies and bloodied stumps
All they need is someone to light their way
Someone so sit, talk and stay
That someone could be you
There’s no excuse that you don’t have a clue
Thinking can turn someone around
Without it they could have drowned
All they need is someone to come and say
Head up kid, everything'll be ok

Fire flashes in my eye
Reflected in the tears I cry
Torn between darkness and light
Trapped within the war I fight
Hidden within myself I fear
The rasping voices that’re so near
Crawling death drawing closer
Rearing up like a fear driven poser
Less and less do I fear
The lonely darkness oh so clear
Lurking deep within my mind
The calling voices that are so kind
Suddenly my mind is full of smoke
Smoke of death in which I choke
Falling, falling along I cry
Oh how I wish that I could die
Daemons of the mind tearing apart
My mind as back and forth I dart
Piecing together the pieces shattered
Struggling as if my life really mattered

Falling forever, I can tell
Death can be swift
The doorway to hell
Following the games, that I play
Teasing your mind
That I can say
But when the world is wrong
Corrupted and despising
Just sing a happy song
Seducing and enticing
Chasing away, all the ones
Who darken minds
With hated cons
Loving an angel, golden wings
Brighten the stars
Ballads he sings
Control your heart and mind
Causing the darkness and cold
Harness it to be kind
Within each and every fold

EMO! You may cry, but no its not I sigh, for these are just a meek tribute, to a girl with which I commute, locked in depression everyday, I just write a poem and say: look, here you go, here's a gift, to fill that dark and lonesome rift.

 

[Aristophanes]

He wishes for the cloths of heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.

-- William Butler Yeats

 

[Invoker]

I believe that poem is one of the best Aristophanes. The last few lines I think are among the most powerful, yet its such a humble and subtle sounding poem.

I enjoy this one, by Edgar Allan Poe, though it may be considered trite by some:

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

 

[Aristophanes]

One of my favourite poems, especially for first stanzas, is Thomas Gray's "The Bard"

"Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
Confusion on thy banners wait,
Tho' fanned by Conquest's crimson wing
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!"
Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, 10
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance:
"To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance.


I.2 Antistrophe

On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Robed in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the Poet stood;
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair
Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air) 20
And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
"Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave,
Sighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath!
O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breath;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.


I.3 Epode

Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
That hush'd the stormy main: 30
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
Mountains, ye mourn in vain
Modred, whose magic song
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail;
The famish'd Eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes, 40
Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your country's cries--
No more I weep. They do not sleep.
On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,
I see them sit, they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land:
With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands, the tissue of thy line."


II.1 Strophe

"Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of Edward's race. 50
Give ample room, and verge enough
The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-eccho with affright
The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing King!
She-Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate,
From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
The scourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait! 60
Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.


II.2 Antistrophe

Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.
Is the sable Warriour fled?
Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead.
The Swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising Morn. 70
Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes;
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening-prey.




II.3 Epode

Fill high the sparkling bowl,
The rich repast prepare,
Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
Close by the regal chair 80
Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
A baleful smile upon their baffled Guest.
Heard ye the din of battle bray,
Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
Long Years of havock urge their destined course,
And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murther fed,
Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame,
And spare the meek Usurper's holy head. 90
Above, below, the rose of snow,
Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
The bristled Boar in infant-gore
Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
Now, Brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.


III.1 Strophe

Edward, lo! to sudden fate
(Weave the woof. The thread is spun)
Half of thy heart we consecrate.
(The web is wove. The work is done.)" 100
"Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowden's height
Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,
Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.
All-hail, ye genuine Kings, Brittania's Issue, hail! 110


III.2 Antistrophe

Girt with many a Baron bold
Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old
In bearded majesty, appear.
In the midst a Form divine!
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line;
Her lyon-port, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.
What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
What strains of vocal transport round her play! 120
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,
Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-colour'd wings.


III.3 Epode

The verse adorn again
Fierce War, and faithful Love,
And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.
In buskin'd measures move
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,
With Horrour, Tyrant of the throbbing breast. 130
A Voice, as of the Cherub-Choir,
Gales from blooming Eden bear;
And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
That lost in long futurity expire.
Fond impious Man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud,
Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the Orb of day?
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,
And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
Enough for me: With joy I see
The different doom our Fates assign. 140
Be thine Despair, and scept'red Care,
To triumph, and to die, are mine."
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night.

Notes:
1. The last of Welsh bards calls doom on the race of Edward I.
8. Wales.
11. Tallest mountain in Britain.
28. Hywel (d. 1170) and Llewellyn (d. 1282), Princes of Wales.
29. Gray invents names.
35. Opposite the island of Anglesey taken by Edward in 1282.
49. The slaughtered bards spin the destiny of Edward's line.
56. Edward II was murdered in Berkeley Castle in 1327.
57. Isabel of France, Edward II's consort.
60. Edward III, son of Edward II and Isabel, invaded and conquered
northern France.
67. The Black Prince, Edward's son, predeceased him.
71. Richard II's court was notable for its magnificence.
87. The Tower of London, where kings and their heirs would be imprisoned
and murdered.
90. The saintly Henry VI was upheld by the force of his Queen, Margaret
of Anjou, and the heroism of his father Henry V.
92. The white and red roses were, respectively, devices of the
houses of York and Lancaster: hence, the wars of the roses.
94. Alluding to Richard III's murder of his nephews and defeat at
Bosworth Field.
99. Eleanor of Castile, Edward's queen, died shortly after his conquest
of Wales.
101. The ghosts end, leaving the bard alone.
110. The house of Tudor, which acceded on the death of Richard III, is
of Welsh origins.
112. Crowned brows.
115. Elizabeth I.
121. Sixth century bard.
126. quotes the Proem to Spenser's Faerie Queene.
130. Shakespeare.
132. Milton.

 

[Siblesz]

Special poem:

El Viento

El viento a de pasar, como todo pasa.
A pasado por la orilla, por el prado, a través montañas...
Si, ya a de pasar. Pasara por aquí, y me llevara con el.
Tratare de pararlo, pero el me parara a mi.
El viento le llega a todos. No hay fiera que se enfrenta
Ni persona que controle. El vive con nosotros.
Algunos no lo sienten y otros se torturan ante el.
El sigue sin acabo. No hay nadie que lo pare.
Imponiendo frontera tras frontera,
Nuestras mentes se preparan para el viento
Porque el ha de llegar.
Amor ciego, amistad desierta, muerte fugaz...
Maldito viento! Porque vino? Porque acabo?
Viene y se va... Viene y se va...
Crea y destruye, cose y rompe.
Porque viene? Porque acaba?
Ante paredes nos refugiamos,
Asustados por el viento.
Porque vendrá? Porque acabara?
No hay pared que lo sostenga. Hay, que viento!
A llegado. Ya lo siento. Luchare, pero no ganare.
Levantándome con su poder, me lanza de un lado a otro.
Ya sin energías, tan solo puedo lo puedo oír.
Y yo ya débil, el viento para.
Ya no hay nada. Hay paz.
El cae conmigo, se acerca a mi y suspira,
“Tu eres el viento.
Uno no para lo que es.”

 

[Dirk Gently]

I was once challenged to produce a work of poetry with the following criteria - it must be about army of darkness and it must involve the destruction of emo children. I present my jokingly intended verse:

"While walking dark and muddy paths,
I came upon this fray
With endless hoardes of demon kids,
All clad in black and grey.

Their faces pale and clothing ripped,
Their fingers in to fists were gripped,
They cried aloud, quietly first:
'I hate my life! So do your worst!'

'Alright' I said, 'you crazy *****!'
'I'll chop your stupid ass to bits!'
My weapon whirred its baneful song,
'Hold on!' I said 'It won't be long!'

Chainsaw lifted above my head,
I charged in to the evil dead:
Limbs sawn off and eyes removed,
'Hey' I said 'That's much improved!'

The zombies came on thick and fast
I cleft them all atwain,
I would stand there to the last,
'Screw you guys, again!'

But after hours of endless blood,
Hope spied its way to me,
And cut limbs down in to the mud,
Which formed an endless sea.

Amongst the endless limbs he sat,
His pillow formed of bones,
And ate some crackers noisily
To cover up the groans."

What an odd thing to post for the first time in months....

 

[Aristophanes]

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

This is such a classic it's quite cliche for me to post it, oh well.

The Highwayman

The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.

He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle--
His rapier hilt a-twinkle--
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked--
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter--
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching--
Marching--marching--
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had bound her up at attention, with many a ****ing jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."

She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.

Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight--
Her musket shattered the moonlight--
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.

He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Alfred Noyes

Brother, Hail and Farewell!!

(Frater) Ave atque Vale

Through many countries and over many seas
I have come, Brother, to these melancholy rites,
to show this final honour to the dead,
and speak (to what purpose?) to your silent ashes,
since now fate takes you, even you, from me.
Oh, Brother, ripped away from me so cruelly,
now at least take these last offerings, blessed
by the tradition of our parents, gifts to the dead.
Accept, by custom, what a brother’s tears drown,
and, for eternity, Brother, ‘Hail and Farewell’.

Gaius Valerius Catullus

FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE’

Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione row!
So they row’d, and there we landed–‘O venusta Sirmio!’
There to me thro’ all the groves of olive in the summer glow,
There beneath the Roman ruin where the purple flowers grow,
Came that ‘Ave atque Vale’ of the Poet’s hopeless woe,
Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen-hundred years ago,
‘Frater Ave atque Vale’–as we wander’d to and fro
Gazing at the Lydian laughter of the Garda Lake below
Sweet Catullus's all-but-island, olive-silvery Sirmio!

 

[Tom Paine]

I studied The Highwayman in primary school at one point. Amazing poem, in my opinion, truly wonderful.

 

[Nicholas Rush]

Reminds me of a date I had with a girlfriend. I had read in the paper that the movie was exellent, I skipped over the review. When I took her to the movie (are first date), I was horrified by the surrealistic landscape, and violent imagery. I was terrified that she would dump me and walk out of the movie. She was uncomfortable. She never spoke of the movie. To this day it is still one of the best I have ever seen. Apocalypse Now.

"The Hollow Men"
T.S. Elliot, 1925

I


We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar


Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;


Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.


II


Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.


Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --


Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom


III


This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.


Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.


IV


The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms


In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river


Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.


V


Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.


Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow


For Thine is the Kingdom


Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow


Life is very long


Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom


For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the


This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

 

[Tom Paine]

And what did you think a film called Apocalypse Now would be like?
Hardly surrealistic though.

 

[Aristophanes]

I liked the first 4 stanzas of Hollow Men. I'm not sure about the last though. It sort of went from sublime to downhill.

Speaking of Apocalypse Now, do you folks think we'll see an attempt at Heart of Darkness in our lifetimes? Or do you think the content would be frowned upon nowadays?