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stalhandske 06-Dec-20, 04:56 |
 Excellent poetryOnce 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 mortal 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 blessed 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 farther 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 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 Seraphim whose foot-falls 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 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! |
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Poe Here's The Bells. www.nationalbellfestival.org |
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The Raven |
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stalhandske 07-Dec-20, 22:39 |
Mo-one Here, our tastes are the same! Thanks for reminding me of "The Bells". Absolutely magnificent! Here's another poem by Poe that I love, Annabel Lee 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 wingèd 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 kinsmen 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. |
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Narrative poems... The Green Eye of the Yellow God (J. Milton Hayes) Thereʼs a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu, Thereʼs a little marble cross below the town, Thereʼs a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew, And the yellow god for ever gazes down. He was known as ʻMad Carewʼ by the subs at Khatmandu, He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell, But for all his foolish pranks He was worshipped in the ranks, And the Colonelʼs daughter smiled on him as well. He had loved her all along With the passion of the strong, The fact that she loved him was plain to all, She was nearly twenty-one, And arrangements had begun To celebrate her birthday with a ball. He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew, They met next day as he dismissed a squad, And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do But the green eye of the little Yellow God. On the night before the dance Mad Carew seemed in a trance, And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars, But for once he failed to smile, And he sat alone awhile, Then went out into the night beneath the stars. He returned before the dawn With his shirt and tunic torn. And a gash across his temples dripping red. He was patched up right away, And he slept all through the day, And the Colonelʼs daughter watched beside his bed. He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through. She brought it and he thanked her with a nod. He bade her search the pocket saying “Thatʼs from Mad Carew,” And she found the little green eye of the god. She upbraided poor Carew In the way that women do, Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet; But she wouldnʼt take the stone, and Carew was left alone With the jewel that heʼd chanced his life to get. When the ball was at its height On that still and tropic night, She thought of him and hastened to his room. As she crossed the barrack square She could hear the dreamy air Of a waltz-tune softly stealing throʼ the gloom. His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through; The place was wet and slippy where she trod; An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew. ʼTwas the ʻVengeance of the Little Yellow God.ʼ Thereʼs a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu, Thereʼs a little marble cross below the town, Thereʼs a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew, And the Yellow God for ever gazes down. Incidentally, the six-stanza philippic against the evil Duke of Romney (a fictitious character) on my profile page is my own. |
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I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable; I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. The last scud of day holds back for me; It flings my likeness after the rest, and true as any, on the shadow’d wilds; It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk. I depart as air—I shake my white locks at the runaway sun; I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. I bequeathe myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love; If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles. You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean; But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood. Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged; Missing me one place, search another; I stop somewhere, waiting for you''. Walt Whitman. |
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Interesting! If the last, here's another with the same motif from Alfred, Lord Tennyson: 'Crossing the bar': Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar. |
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It was Whitman's ... The Darkling Thrush BY THOMAS HARDY I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-grey, And Winter's dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land's sharp features seemed to be The Century's corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware. |
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Stalh I don't recall ever having read it and I have an EAP book somewhere. |
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William Shakespeare makes History again ''Yesterday, in the UK, William Shakespeare was the second Man vaccinated against covid19!!.www.youtube.com '“O! how shall summer's honey breath hold out, / Against the wrackful siege of battering days?” William Shakespeare |
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Something equally contemporarily apt... Mistah Kurtz-he dead A penny for the Old Guy 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. |
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The Hollow Men - Speaking of which, observe that the US House of Representatives has passed a Bill cementing in Perpetual War. US Troops may not be withdrawn from oversea deployment 'without sufficient reason'. More Republicans voted against the Bill than did Democrats. Anyone surprised? |
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archduke |
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Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more (from Henry V, spoken by King Henry) Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it As fearfully as doth a galled rock O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noblest English. Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn till even fought And sheathed their swords for lack of argument: Dishonour not your mothers; now attest That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!' |
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O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You’ve fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. |
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riaannieman 10-Dec-20, 05:07 |
Deleted by riaannieman on 10-Dec-20, 20:47.
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There is... It has long been my belief that to forgive is to forget, and to forget is to forgive. This applies at personal and social levels. The story could be as much about the state of the world today as it was 120 years ago; and equally throughout the whole of human history. |
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stalhandske 10-Dec-20, 20:42 |
Riaan |
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It alludes to the English which annexed the country piece by piece, and especially when gold and diamonds were discovered, declared war in the fledgling country. Two wars followed, and the women and children were interred in concentration camps. That is the wound, because after the second Anglo/Boer war there were a huge lack of females. This led to decline in the population growth for many years. Vergewe en vergeet - Totius Daar het 'n doringboompie vlak by die pad gestaan, waar lange ossespanne met sware vragte gaan. En eendag kom daarlanges 'n ossewa verby, vat met sy sware wiele dwars-oor die boompie ry. "Jy het mos, doringstruikie, my ander dag gekrap; en daarom het my wiele jou kroontjie plat getrap." Die ossewa verdwyn weer agter 'n heuweltop, en langsaam buig die boompie sy stammetjie weer op. Sy skoonheid was geskonde; sy bassies was geskeur; op een plek was die stammetjie so amper middeldeur. Maar tog het daardie boompie weer stadig reggekom, want oor sy wonde druppel die salf van eie gom. Ook het die loop van jare die wonde weggewis - net een plek bly 'n t e k e n wat onuitwisbaar is. Die w o n d e word gesond weer as jare kom en gaan, maar daardie m e r k word groter en groei maar aldeur aan. Forgive and forget There stood a little thorn tree very close to the road where long ox teams went with heavy wheels One day there passed by an ox team which with its heavy wheels drove across the little tree "You, little thorn bush, scratched me the other day; and that is why my wheels run your over your top." The ox-wagon disappeared again behind a hilltop and in time the little tree unbent its trunk straight again It's beauty was marred it's bark was torn at one spot the trunk was almost shorn But still that little tree started to repair because over its wounds beaded the salve of its own gum Also the passage of years washed the wounds away only on one place stays a mark that cannot be eradicated The wounds heal again as years come and go but that mark grows larger and always grows |
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they go low...we go high “The Road Not Taken” Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. Robert Frost. ''Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”. Emma Lazarus 1849 |
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Emma Lazarus - The sylvan setting of 'The Road Not Travelled' reminded me of this, although the topic is not the same. My main hobby is war gaming with miniatures, which requires the creation of settings as well as armies. One of its beguiling aspects is the number of projects that might be undertaken, and THAT can mean taking several roads at once. By that I mean, taking up one project, and, whilst half way through, taking up another. Another blogger mentioned this, to which I responded thus. Readers might detect a certain Tolkien influence here...: Projects go ever on: Building rock and building tree, Hills and woods where no sun has shone, And streams that reach the edge - no sea; Over snow by flour strewn, Or grass-mat cornfield in steamy June; From deepest night to highest noon, From brightest day to darkest moon - Projects go ever on. The plastic and metal soldiers tread, Uniforms to be painted on, Blue and green and white and red... (Me) And here, from 'The Hobbit' Roads go ever ever on, Over rock and under tree, By caves where never sun has shone, By streams that never find the sea; Over snow by winter sown, And through the merry flowers of June, Over grass and over stone, And under mountains in the moon. Roads go ever ever on Under cloud and under star, Yet feet that wandering have gone Turn at last to home afar. Eyes that fire and sword have seen And horror in the halls of stone Look at last on meadows green And trees and hills they long have known. (Tolkien) |
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archduke ''"In that dream I thought the eastern sky grew dark and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it I heard a voice, remote but clear, crying: Seek for the Sword that was broken: In Imladris it dwells; There shall be counsels taken Stronger than Morgul-spells. There shall be shown a token That Doom is near at hand, For Isildur's Bane shall waken, And the Halfling forth shall stand." Tolkien |
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Facing death... But rather than list that one, here is the verse Montrose, facing a horrible execution, is said to have written with the point of a diamond upon the window of his prison cell. 'Let them bestow on every airth a limb, Then open all my veins, that I may swim To Thee, my Maker, in that crimson lake; Then place my par-boil'd head upon a stake, Scatter my ashes, strew them in the air; Lord! since thou knowest where all these atoms are, I'm hopeful thou'lt recover once my dust, And confident thou'lt raise me with the just.' It was said around about that time that the Scottish Kirk 'delighted not in unbloody sacrifices.' |
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64 squares poem is ease, chess is scar poem is heart, chess is mind poem is art, chess science poem is inspiration, chess is ******* poem is emotion, chess is reason poem is love, chess logic poem is nostalgic, chess futuristic poem is life, chess is death poem is joy, chess regret poem is smile, chess is frown poem is commoner, chess is crown poem is beautiful, chess is serious poem is Persephone, chess is Icarus poem is light, chess darkness poem is more, chess is less poem is free, chess confined poem is timeless, chess is timed poem is high-spirited, chess is nervous poem is silent, chess is famous poem is blissful, chess uncertain poem is forever, chess is beginning poem is generosity, chess is sacrifice poem is welcome, chess is goodbye poem is garden, chess battlefield poem is human, chess is machine poem is heaven, chess is the world poem is pen, chess is sword'' Joselito M Lagazo |
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persistence.... The pigeon feeders have left. The old men on the benches have left. The white-gloved ladies with the Great Danes have left. The lovers who thought about coming have left. The man in the three-piece suit has left. The man who was a three-piece band has left. The man on the milkcrate with the bible has left. Even the birds have left. Now the trees are thinking about leaving too. And the grass is trying to turn itself in. Of course the buses no longer pass. And the children no longer ask. The air wants to go and is in discussions. The clouds are trying to steer clear. The sky is reaching for its hands. Even the moon sees what’s going on. But the stars remain in the dark. As does the chess player. Who sits with all his pieces In position.''Howard Altmann |
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stalhandske 13-Dec-20, 03:04 |
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stalhandske 13-Dec-20, 03:09 |
www.theguardian.com |
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