A thread neither mad nor sad.

[Lord_Olf]

Hail Shadow,

One of The Simpsons episodes featured Homer declaiming that poem (with Bart playing the part of the Raven, and screeching 'Nevermore').   It was wonderful.   :D
[right][snapback]64895[/snapback][/right]

I seem to remember that it started something like this:

Homer: "...quoth the Raven:"
Bart: "Eat my shorts!"

Had me laughing quite hard... As for ole' Edgar Allan, methinks "Lenore" and "Silence" are a little more to my taste...

Take care,

Lord_Olf

EDIT: Spelling, what else?

[Lord_Olf]

Hail Armin,

would you have the author's name of "Fire and Ice" handy? I happened across part of that poem in one of Dean Koontz books, without an author given. "The Book of Counted Sorrows" was all info that was given there.

Take care,

Lord_Olf

[Lord_Olf]

Hail Pete,

being a scuba diver, I sometimes wonder why there are so few poems about the Ocean, and especially the Ocean beneath its surface, that place being the wonderful one it is. Looking for some poems about it, I stumbled across this one, penned by Chris Hill. Makes me goosehairy whenever I read it:

Narcosis

Downwards, ever downwards finning
Down into the watery world
Down towards narcosis frontiers
Where the mind meets Morpheus‘ furls

Coral, kelp with colours fading
Sombre hues predominate
Asthmatic breathing turns metallic
At a hundred's water weight

Past the silhouetted seaweed
There before a yawning cave
Stands a shadowy figure beckoning
Stands before a shallow grave

From the cave is heard a chanting
Then an organ's mournful dirge
Swelling to a glorious anthem
Stills all but the ocean's surge

On the gravestone is a warning
Warning those who plumb the deep
Not to cross the rapturous frontier
Not to chance eternal sleep

Slowly upwards. Near the surface
Sunbeams sparkle in their play
Burning bright each sombre colour
Fading rapturous dreams away


Take care,

Lord_Olf

[--Pete]

Hi,

would you have the author's name of "Fire and Ice" handy?
[right][snapback]64919[/snapback][/right]

As Armin said, it is one of the poems by Robert Frost.

I happened across part of that poem in one of Dean Koontz books, without an author given. "The Book of Counted Sorrows" was all info that was given there.

I'm a Koontz reader myself, and have often run across his intro poems attributed to "The Book of Counted Sorrows". I've searched for such a book, but the only things I've found are like this. However, I've found this which indicates that there was no "Book of Counted Sorrows" as of '98. Amazon shows no such book at this time.

As to the lines by Frost appearing in a Koontz book without attribution, that sounds fishy. Are you sure you are not misremembering?

--Pete

[--Pete]

Hi,

Nice one :)

. . . I sometimes wonder why there are so few poems about the Ocean, and especially the Ocean beneath its surface, . . .
[right][snapback]64921[/snapback][/right]

While there are many poems about the ocean, both in itself and as something to cross, to challenge, etc., I too have not seen many (actually, the one you gave was the first) poems about diving. Perhaps it is because the field as a hobby is relatively new (say 55 years or so) and so far there have been few who were both diver and poet. For some reason, I can't imagine a hard bitten salvage or sponge diver getting off from work and sitting down to write a poem -- more likely, sitting down to kill a few pints :)

--Pete

[Rinnhart]

Poe's the Conqueror Worm.

[Bob the Beholder]

For some crazy reason I am a fan of E.E Cummings (I refuse to leave it uncapitalized). I consider the funky lack of capitalization to be annoying and pointless, but that aside, some of his poems are just really, really... well put together I guess you could say. Just written in such a way that it flows from word to word well, like the whole poem is in a single piece, and not a series of separate lines.

Like this one, which is the one I've seen most:

what if a much of a which of a wind
gives the truth to summer's lie;
bloodies with dizzying leaves the sun
and yanks immortal stars awry?
Blow king to beggar and queen to seem
(blow friend to fiend: blow space to time)
-when skies are hanged and oceans drowned,
the single secret will still be man

what if a keen of a lean wind flays
screaming hills with sleet and snow:
strangles valleys by ropes of thing
and stifles forests in white ago?
Blow hope to terror; blow seeing to blind
(blow pity to envy and soul to mind)
-whose hearts are mountains, roots are trees,
it's they shall cry hello to the spring

what if a dawn of a doom of a dream
bites this universe in two,
peels forever out of his grave
and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?
Blow soon to never and never to twice
(blow life to isn't: blow death to was)
-all nothing's only our hugest home;
the most who die, the more we live.

And then there's another one that is very, very different. It's impossible to read outloud, but is still very memorable for some reason:

l(a

le
af

fa
ll
s)

one
l
iness

[kandrathe]

Hi,
And why should it not? :)

We start infants off with such priceless treasures as "One fish, two fish, red, fish, blue fish".  Kids love the rhyme and rhythm, the word play of this poetry which is at a level they can understand.  This love is reinforced in good children's programming (Sesame Street and The Electric Company for example).

And then we send them to school where all interest in the language is killed with "see spot run" and 'stories for children' written by incompetent hacks.  So much so that, as adults, many cannot even think of any poem, much less a favorite poem.

--Pete
[right][snapback]64825[/snapback][/right]

Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, Will there be enough room? At times I have to hide this book from my two year old to give my brain a rhythmic holiday for a day. He really loves the rhyming stories read seemingly hundreds of times in a row. Also, Dr. Seuss, Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb -- "Millions of fingers! Millions of thumbs! Millions of monkeys, Drumming on drums!" Of course, Daddy does it with a Thespian flair.

My favorite poem is;

If -- by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!

[--Pete]

Hi,

Overall, I really like Kipling. His collected poems lived/will live on my nightstand. In the watches of the night when I wake up, fresh and bright, (but that's Elliot :) ), Kipling has often been my companion. If is probably tied with Gunga Din as his best known poems. I like them both, but my favorite Kipling has to be:

The 'eathen
By Rudyard Kipling
Born 1865
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


The 'eathen in 'is blindness bows down to wood an' stone;
'E don't obey no orders unless they is 'is own;
'E keeps 'is side-arms awful: 'e leaves 'em all about,
An' then comes up the regiment an' pokes the 'eathen out.

All along o' dirtiness, all along o' mess,
All along o' doin' things rather-more-or-less,
All along of abby-nay, kul, an' hazar-ho, *
Mind you keep your rifle an' yourself jus' so!

* abby-nay: Not now. kul: To-morrow. hazar-ho: Wait a bit.

The young recruit is 'aughty -- 'e draf's from Gawd knows where;
They bid 'im show 'is stockin's an' lay 'is mattress square;
'E calls it bloomin' nonsense -- 'e doesn't know no more --
An' then up comes 'is Company an' kicks 'im round the floor!

The young recruit is 'ammered -- 'e takes it very 'ard;
'E 'angs 'is 'ead an' mutters -- 'e sulks about the yard;
'E talks o' "cruel tyrants" 'e'll swing for by-an'-by,
An' the others 'ears an' mocks 'im, an' the boy goes orf to cry.

The young recruit is silly -- 'e thinks o' suicide;
'E's lost 'is gutter-devil; 'e 'asn't got 'is pride;
But day by day they kicks 'im, which 'elps 'im on a bit,
Till 'e finds 'isself one mornin' with a full an' proper kit.

Gettin' clear o' dirtiness, gettin' done with mess,
Gettin' shut o' doin' things rather-more-or-less;
Not so fond of abby-nay, kul, nor hazar-ho,
Learns to keep 'is rifle an' 'isself jus' so!

The young recruit is 'appy -- 'e throws a chest to suit;
You see 'im grow mustaches; you 'ear 'im slap 'is boot;
'E learns to drop the "bloodies" from every word 'e slings,
An' 'e shows an 'ealthy brisket when 'e strips for bars an' rings.

The cruel-tyrant-sergeants they watch 'im 'arf a year;
They watch 'im with 'is comrades, they watch 'im with 'is beer;
They watch 'im with the women at the regimental dance,
And the cruel-tyrant-sergeants send 'is name along for "Lance".

An' now 'e's 'arf o' nothin', an' all a private yet,
'Is room they up an' rags 'im to see what they will get;
They rags 'im low an' cunnin', each dirty trick they can,
But 'e learns to sweat 'is temper an' 'e learns to sweat 'is man.

An', last, a Colour-Sergeant, as such to be obeyed,
'E schools 'is men at cricket, 'e tells 'em on parade;
They sees 'em quick an' 'andy, uncommon set an' smart,
An' so 'e talks to orficers which 'ave the Core at 'eart.

'E learns to do 'is watchin' without it showin' plain;
'E learns to save a dummy, an' shove 'im straight again;
'E learns to check a ranker that's buyin' leave to shirk;
An' 'e learns to make men like 'im so they'll learn to like their work.

An' when it comes to marchin' he'll see their socks are right,
An' when it comes to action 'e shows 'em 'ow to sight;
'E knows their ways of thinkin' and just what's in their mind;
'E knows when they are takin' on an' when they've fell be'ind.

'E knows each talkin' corpril that leads a squad astray;
'E feels 'is innards 'eavin', 'is bowels givin' way;
'E sees the blue-white faces all tryin' 'ard to grin,
An' 'e stands an' waits an' suffers till it's time to cap 'em in.

An' now the hugly bullets come peckin' through the dust,
An' no one wants to face 'em, but every beggar must;
So, like a man in irons which isn't glad to go,
They moves 'em off by companies uncommon stiff an' slow.

Of all 'is five years' schoolin' they don't remember much
Excep' the not retreatin', the step an' keepin' touch.
It looks like teachin' wasted when they duck an' spread an' 'op,
But if 'e 'adn't learned 'em they'd be all about the shop!

An' now it's "'Oo goes backward?" an' now it's "'Oo comes on?"
And now it's "Get the doolies," an' now the captain's gone;
An' now it's bloody murder, but all the while they 'ear
'Is voice, the same as barrick drill, a-shepherdin' the rear.

'E's just as sick as they are, 'is 'eart is like to split,
But 'e works 'em, works 'em, works 'em till he feels 'em take the bit;
The rest is 'oldin' steady till the watchful bugles play,
An' 'e lifts 'em, lifts 'em, lifts 'em through the charge that wins the day!

The 'eathen in 'is blindness bows down to wood an' stone;
'E don't obey no orders unless they is 'is own;
The 'eathen in 'is blindness must end where 'e began,
But the backbone of the Army is the non-commissioned man!

Keep away from dirtiness -- keep away from mess.
Don't get into doin' things rather-more-or-less!
Let's ha' done with abby-nay, kul, an' hazar-ho;
Mind you keep your rifle an' yourself jus' so!

---------------------

Probably just the romantic in me ;)

--pete

[kandrathe]

Or, the classic;

547. she being brand new - ee cummings

she being Brand

-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having

thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.

K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her

up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and

again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my

lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity

avenue i touched the accelerator and give

her the juice,good

(it

was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on

the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
brakes Bothatonce and

brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.

stand-
;Still)

[Copadope]

One of my favourites is "The Raven " by Edgar allen Poe               
[right][snapback]64890[/snapback][/right]

I'm also a big fan of "The Raven." It has a very unique rhythm and I love it.

After reading "In the Desert" in a fellow lurker's sig a while back, I realized that I like much of Stephen Crane's work. I stick this one in my instant messanger profile to show all my internet buddies how cultured I am...


XXIV

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
"It is futile," I said,
"You can never -- "

"You lie," he cried,
And ran on.


I even wrote my own poem once! I was inspired while pouring my cereal for breakfast one morning and eventually came up with this:

"The Lonely Spoon"

The Lonely Spoon, all by itself
It sits within your drawer or shelf.
And when you see it, you will say
"I must find more clean spoons today."
You'll grab some clean spoons from the sink
And will not even stop to think
About the spoon you just entombed
Beneath the pile of "fresher" spoons.

But just before you drop the pile
If you would listen close awhile
You'd hear The Lonely Spoon cry out
As loud as any spoon can shout,
"You need a spoon! Oh please take me!
Just take a chance and you will see
That I'm the only spoon you'll need.
I'll be the best spoon I can be!"

But you won't hear it. You won't care.
You'll pass right by and leave it there.
And when your need to scoop has passed
And you lay down your spoon at last
You'll have no clue what joy you missed
Just say "Farewell." Goodbye, it's kissed.
You could have lifted to your chin
The best damn spoon there's ever been...


It doesn't really compare to the rest of the poems in this post, but it was good enough to be accepted for my college's student literature journal. (Not that their standards are very high... :P )

[Lord_Olf]

Hail Pete,

my bad... after not having been to the Lounge for two weeks, there were quite a few posts to get through yesterday, and I missed the name of the author.

As for "The Book of Counted Sorrows", I have not been able to find something of that name.

And yes, I am quite sure at the moment that the poem in question was attributed to "The Book of Counted Sorrows", not an author. Also, the poem did not appear in its entire length, IIRC. I will make sure to check come the weekend, when I will have the Koontz book in whcih it appeared handy.

Take care,

Lord_Olf

[Lord_Olf]

Hail Pete,

For some reason, I can't imagine a hard bitten salvage or sponge diver getting off from work and sitting down to write a poem -- more likely, sitting down to kill a few pints :)

--Pete
[right][snapback]64924[/snapback][/right]

same goes for hard working diveguides and instructors once in a while*g*...

Still, it's amazing that there's not much "diving poetry" to be found searching the internet, especially with diving having beomce so vastly popular over the last ten years...

Take care,

Lord_Olf

[Tal]

Hi,
As Armin said, it is one of the poems by Robert Frost.
I'm a Koontz reader myself, and have often run across his intro poems attributed to "The Book of Counted Sorrows".  I've searched for such a book, but the only things I've found are like this.  However, I've found this which indicates that there was no "Book of Counted Sorrows" as of '98.  Amazon shows no such book at this time.

As to the lines by Frost appearing in a Koontz book without attribution, that sounds fishy.  Are you sure you are not misremembering?

--Pete
[right][snapback]64922[/snapback][/right]

Hi Pete - according to this page the book in question does not exist. They also quote Koontz (granted it is from an e-mail exchange a librarian had with Koontz):

"Actually, there is no such book. I made it up. The way you made up footnote sources for fabricated facts in high-school English reports. Oh, come on, yes, you did. Sometimes, when I need a bit of verse to convey some of the underlying themes of a section of a novel, I can't find anything applicable, so I write my own and attribute it to this imaginary tome. I figured readers would eventually realize THE BOOK OF COUNTED SORROWS was my own invention, and I never expected that one day librarians and booksellers would be writing from all over the country, asking for help in tracking down this rare and mysterious volume!"

[--Pete]

Hi,

Ah, a poem to a car ;)

Sounds like early Beach Boys :)

--Pete

[Dozer]

Hi,

I always liked that one, too.  But Kipling greatly changed the feelings it engenders:

The Last of the Light Brigade
1891
Rudyard Kipling
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

..............

--Pete
[right][snapback]64914[/snapback][/right]

Eh, not bad, but I always liked poems that stayed away from getting too prosey (if that is even a word, ha!). That one is a little too close to the poem/prose line for me to think of as a true classic :whistling:

But hey, whatever floats your boat!

[--Pete]

Hi,

That one is a little too close to the poem/prose line for me to think of as a true classic[right][snapback]65032[/snapback][/right]

Oh, I quite agree with you. Many of Kipling's poems are 'prosey' (if it isn't a word, it should be :) )

My point wasn't the quality of the poem so much as the story it tells. The contrast between schoolchildren learning Alfred Lord Tennyson's glorification of the sacrifice of the Light Brigade (which was, after all a military blunder) and the reality of how the veterans of that brigade were being treated.

Nobody wants a 'retired' hero. :(

--Pete

[Occhidiangela]

Hi,
Oh, I quite agree with you.  Many of Kipling's poems are 'prosey' (if it isn't a word, it should be :) )

My point wasn't the quality of the poem so much as the story it tells.  The contrast between schoolchildren learning Alfred Lord Tennyson's glorification of the sacrifice of the Light Brigade (which was, after all a military blunder) and the reality of how the veterans of that brigade were being treated.

Nobody wants a 'retired' hero. :(

--Pete
[right][snapback]65044[/snapback][/right]

If only Generals Schwarzkops and Clark understood that . . . <_<

Occhi

[Simm]

The first poem I memorized is the Jabberwocky and is still probably my favorite to say out loud.

[Dan Solo]

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

John Gillespie Magee, Jr.