What is the greatest poem of all time?
- Thread starter AnOminous
- Start date
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- Aug 16, 2018
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- Jun 28, 2020
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- Mar 24, 2018
- Joined
- Oct 13, 2020
I'll go with The Lusiads by Luis de Camões.
An epic and whimsical tale told in over 8000 decassyllable verses about the travels of one Vasco da Gama, who went from Lisbon to Kozhikode by circumventing most of Africa, and then returned through the Mediterranean Sea.
In English, my faves are William Ernest Henley's "Invictus", Walt Whitman's "O, Captain! My Captain!", Edgar Allan Poe's "Annabelle Lee", Robert Service's "The Cremation of Sam McGee" and Langston Hughes' "Harlem".
An epic and whimsical tale told in over 8000 decassyllable verses about the travels of one Vasco da Gama, who went from Lisbon to Kozhikode by circumventing most of Africa, and then returned through the Mediterranean Sea.
In English, my faves are William Ernest Henley's "Invictus", Walt Whitman's "O, Captain! My Captain!", Edgar Allan Poe's "Annabelle Lee", Robert Service's "The Cremation of Sam McGee" and Langston Hughes' "Harlem".
- Joined
- Jan 15, 2019
IMHO it's The Raven, it hammers home that good Poetry needs to performed to be appreciated.
- Joined
- Mar 16, 2020
It's good because it's obvious it's unattainable.
There's a lot of good poetry by Kipling.
The stranger is pretty apt for our times.
The Stranger
The Stranger within my gate,
He may be true or kind,
But he does not talk my talk–
I cannot feel his mind.
I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
But not the soul behind.
The men of my own stock,
They may do ill or well,
But they tell the lies I am wanted to,
They are used to the lies I tell;
And we do not need interpreters
When we go to buy or sell.
The Stranger within my gates,
He may be evil or good,
But I cannot tell what powers control–
What reasons sway his mood;
Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
Shall repossess his blood.
The men of my own stock,
Bitter bad they may be,
But, at least, they hear the things I hear,
And see the things I see;
And whatever I think of them and their likes
They think of the likes of me.
This was my father’s belief
And this is also mine:
Let the corn be all one sheaf–
And the grapes be all one vine,
Ere our children’s teeth are set on edge
By bitter bread and wine.
– Rudyard Kipling
barbellister
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Aug 10, 2020
This one is the winner. Alternatively, anything by Ogden Nash. Complex poetry is for pseuds :^)
- Joined
- Nov 3, 2019
'If' by Kipling is a fine poem.
- Joined
- Aug 24, 2019
Edna St. Vincent Millay's "Childhood is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies"
Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age
The child is grown, and puts away childish things.
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.
Nobody that matters, that is. Distant relatives of course
Die, whom one never has seen or has seen for an hour,
And they gave one candy in a pink-and-green stripéd bag, or a jack-knife,
And went away, and cannot really be said to have lived at all.
And cats die. They lie on the floor and lash their tails,
And their reticent fur is suddenly all in motion
With fleas that one never knew were there,
Polished and brown, knowing all there is to know,
Trekking off into the living world.
You fetch a shoe-box, but it's much too small, because she won't curl up now:
So you find a bigger box, and bury her in the yard, and weep.
But you do not wake up a month from then, two months
A year from then, two years, in the middle of the night
And weep, with your knuckles in your mouth, and say Oh, God! Oh, God!
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters,
—mothers and fathers don't die.
And if you have said, "For heaven's sake, must you always be kissing a person?"
Or, "I do wish to gracious you'd stop tapping on the window with your thimble!"
Tomorrow, or even the day after tomorrow if you're busy having fun,
Is plenty of time to say, "I'm sorry, mother."
To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died,
who neither listen nor speak;
Who do not drink their tea, though they always said
Tea was such a comfort.
Run down into the cellar and bring up the last jar of raspberries;
they are not tempted.
Flatter them, ask them what was it they said exactly
That time, to the bishop, or to the overseer, or to Mrs. Mason;
They are not taken in.
Shout at them, get red in the face, rise,
Drag them up out of their chairs by their stiff shoulders and shake
them and yell at them;
They are not startled, they are not even embarrassed; they slide
back into their chairs.
Your tea is cold now.
You drink it standing up,
And leave the house.
Childhood is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies
Edna St. Vincent Millay - 1892-1950Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age
The child is grown, and puts away childish things.
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.
Nobody that matters, that is. Distant relatives of course
Die, whom one never has seen or has seen for an hour,
And they gave one candy in a pink-and-green stripéd bag, or a jack-knife,
And went away, and cannot really be said to have lived at all.
And cats die. They lie on the floor and lash their tails,
And their reticent fur is suddenly all in motion
With fleas that one never knew were there,
Polished and brown, knowing all there is to know,
Trekking off into the living world.
You fetch a shoe-box, but it's much too small, because she won't curl up now:
So you find a bigger box, and bury her in the yard, and weep.
But you do not wake up a month from then, two months
A year from then, two years, in the middle of the night
And weep, with your knuckles in your mouth, and say Oh, God! Oh, God!
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters,
—mothers and fathers don't die.
And if you have said, "For heaven's sake, must you always be kissing a person?"
Or, "I do wish to gracious you'd stop tapping on the window with your thimble!"
Tomorrow, or even the day after tomorrow if you're busy having fun,
Is plenty of time to say, "I'm sorry, mother."
To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died,
who neither listen nor speak;
Who do not drink their tea, though they always said
Tea was such a comfort.
Run down into the cellar and bring up the last jar of raspberries;
they are not tempted.
Flatter them, ask them what was it they said exactly
That time, to the bishop, or to the overseer, or to Mrs. Mason;
They are not taken in.
Shout at them, get red in the face, rise,
Drag them up out of their chairs by their stiff shoulders and shake
them and yell at them;
They are not startled, they are not even embarrassed; they slide
back into their chairs.
Your tea is cold now.
You drink it standing up,
And leave the house.
- Joined
- Feb 19, 2017
Say darky, have you seen the massa with the mustache on his face?
Go long the road some time dis mornin' like he gonna leave this place
He seen the smoke way up the river where the Lincoln gunboats lay
He took his hat and he left very sudden an' I think he's run away
The massa run! Aha! The darkies say "Ho ho!"
It must be now the Kingdom Comin' and the Year of Jubilo
He six foot one way and three foot the other
And he weigh three hundred pounds
His coat so big he can't pay the tailor and it won't go halfway round
He drill so much they call him Captain and he get so dreadful tanned
I spec he'll try to fool them Yankees into think he's contraband!
The massa run! Aha! The darkies say "Ho ho!"
It must be now the Kingdom Comin' and the Year of Jubilo
The darkies feel so lonesome living in the log house all day long
They move their things to the massa's parlor to keep it while he gone
There's wine and cider in the kitchen and the darkies they have some
I s'pose they'll all be confiscated when the Yankee soldiers come!
The massa run! Aha! The darkies say "Ho ho!"
It must be now the Kingdom Comin' and the Year of Jubilo
The overseer cause us trouble and drive us 'round a spell
So we lock him in an outhouse cellar with the key thrown down the well
His whip is lost, his handcuffs broken but the massa will have his pay
He's old enough and big enough and oughta know better to go an' runaway!
The massa run! Aha! The darkies say "Ho ho!"
It must be now the Kingdom Comin' and the Year of Jubilo
Go long the road some time dis mornin' like he gonna leave this place
He seen the smoke way up the river where the Lincoln gunboats lay
He took his hat and he left very sudden an' I think he's run away
The massa run! Aha! The darkies say "Ho ho!"
It must be now the Kingdom Comin' and the Year of Jubilo
He six foot one way and three foot the other
And he weigh three hundred pounds
His coat so big he can't pay the tailor and it won't go halfway round
He drill so much they call him Captain and he get so dreadful tanned
I spec he'll try to fool them Yankees into think he's contraband!
The massa run! Aha! The darkies say "Ho ho!"
It must be now the Kingdom Comin' and the Year of Jubilo
The darkies feel so lonesome living in the log house all day long
They move their things to the massa's parlor to keep it while he gone
There's wine and cider in the kitchen and the darkies they have some
I s'pose they'll all be confiscated when the Yankee soldiers come!
The massa run! Aha! The darkies say "Ho ho!"
It must be now the Kingdom Comin' and the Year of Jubilo
The overseer cause us trouble and drive us 'round a spell
So we lock him in an outhouse cellar with the key thrown down the well
His whip is lost, his handcuffs broken but the massa will have his pay
He's old enough and big enough and oughta know better to go an' runaway!
The massa run! Aha! The darkies say "Ho ho!"
It must be now the Kingdom Comin' and the Year of Jubilo
- Joined
- Jan 6, 2020
Some come to take a shit, I come to leave one.
-Bathroom stall poetry
-Bathroom stall poetry
- Joined
- Aug 7, 2017
The Dark Man by Sergey Esenin. I don't think there was an official adaptation of it, but here are two attempts at translation.
My friend, oh my friend, I’m sick to the end
I don’t know from where it came, all this pain
Maybe, with wind whistling through barren land
Maybe, as groves wilt in the fall,
Alcohol withers my brain
My head is flapping its ears, just like a bird her wings.
It ran out of strength to stay on my neck upright.
The dark man is blacker than black. On my bed, he sits.
This dark man will not let me sleep through the night.
Dark man is dragging his finger through the lines of disgusting book.
Like a priest at the wake, mumbles over my head
‘Bout a life of a wretched barfly and crook,
Drowning my soul in sorrow and dread.
Dark man, so black, so black.
“Listen to me”, - he mutters his mantra, -
“In this book there are brilliant thoughts and designs.
This man has lived his life in the country
Of most horrible thugs, among swindles and crimes.
Pure as devil snow falls there in December.
Blizzards merrily run spinning wheels all around.
This man has been fond of precarious gambles,
But his was the highest, illustrious kind.
He was elegant, even a poet of sorts,
With a slight but memorable lyre.
Had some woman of forty or so years old
That he called ‘naughty girl’, and ‘my dear’.”
“Happiness”, - he continued - “Is in sleight of mind and hand.
Those without cunning will always remain deprived.
It does not matter that much anguish is lent
By the gestures twisted with lies.
Through tempests and storms, through day to day grind,
The trial of heavy loss, and while gripped by cold
Being able to stay unassuming and smile -
Is the art most sublime in this world.”
“Dark man, dark man, how can you dare!
It is not your job to do this "deep sea diving".
Some scandalous poet, why should I care?
Please go, read, and tell someone else of your findings.”
Dark man is staring directly at me,
Eyes glazing up with blue varnish of vomit.
As if wanting to say that I am a thief,
That robbed a man and then had no regrets for it.
My friend, oh my friend, I’m sick to the end
I don’t know from where it came, all this pain
Maybe, with wind whistling through barren land
Maybe, as groves wilt in the fall,
Alcohol withers my brain.
Night is frosty, calm crossroads are hushed
By the window I stand, not expecting a guest.
Limestone blankets the fields, into powder crushed,
And the trees, like horse riders, came to garden to rest.
Sobs of ominous night-bird are in the air,
Hooves of wooden horsemen sprinkle scattered trot.
And again this dark man sinks himself in my chair,
Tips his top hat and flings the folds of his frock.
“Listen, listen!” – he rasps, looking me in the eye,
Bending over with closer and closer creep.
”I have not seen a scoundrel consumed by
Useless, asinine thoughts so as to miss out on sleep.
Ah, perhaps, my mistake. This night’s moon is exquisite.
Drunk with slumber, what else does this little world need?
Maybe, there is “the one”, chubby thighs, furtive visitor,
Comes for you to drone on through your tired rotten screed?
I’m quite fond of you, poets! Such an amusing crowd.
Yours is always the story I know by heart.
A long-haired dork tells acne-riddled girl scout
Of worlds, meanwhile longing with languor to get her in the sack.
I don’t know, can’t recall, this little town
In Kaluga district, perhaps in Ryazan’s,
Where a boy lived, the son of one simple farmer.
He was straw-haired, with azure eyes.
And then he grew up, turned a poet of sorts,
With a slight but memorable lyre.
Had some woman of forty or so years old
That he called ‘naughty girl’ and ‘my dear’…”
“You, dark guest, are a hideous man.
Long ago your disgrace has been spread far and wide.”
I'm enraged, I'm possessed, and I throw my cane
In his sickening mug, aiming straight between eyes.
…Moon is dead, in the window looms blue sunrise
Oh, you night! Night, just what have you stoked?
As I stand in top hat, with no one by my side
I’m alone, and my mirror is broken.
I don’t know from where it came, all this pain
Maybe, with wind whistling through barren land
Maybe, as groves wilt in the fall,
Alcohol withers my brain
My head is flapping its ears, just like a bird her wings.
It ran out of strength to stay on my neck upright.
The dark man is blacker than black. On my bed, he sits.
This dark man will not let me sleep through the night.
Dark man is dragging his finger through the lines of disgusting book.
Like a priest at the wake, mumbles over my head
‘Bout a life of a wretched barfly and crook,
Drowning my soul in sorrow and dread.
Dark man, so black, so black.
“Listen to me”, - he mutters his mantra, -
“In this book there are brilliant thoughts and designs.
This man has lived his life in the country
Of most horrible thugs, among swindles and crimes.
Pure as devil snow falls there in December.
Blizzards merrily run spinning wheels all around.
This man has been fond of precarious gambles,
But his was the highest, illustrious kind.
He was elegant, even a poet of sorts,
With a slight but memorable lyre.
Had some woman of forty or so years old
That he called ‘naughty girl’, and ‘my dear’.”
“Happiness”, - he continued - “Is in sleight of mind and hand.
Those without cunning will always remain deprived.
It does not matter that much anguish is lent
By the gestures twisted with lies.
Through tempests and storms, through day to day grind,
The trial of heavy loss, and while gripped by cold
Being able to stay unassuming and smile -
Is the art most sublime in this world.”
“Dark man, dark man, how can you dare!
It is not your job to do this "deep sea diving".
Some scandalous poet, why should I care?
Please go, read, and tell someone else of your findings.”
Dark man is staring directly at me,
Eyes glazing up with blue varnish of vomit.
As if wanting to say that I am a thief,
That robbed a man and then had no regrets for it.
My friend, oh my friend, I’m sick to the end
I don’t know from where it came, all this pain
Maybe, with wind whistling through barren land
Maybe, as groves wilt in the fall,
Alcohol withers my brain.
Night is frosty, calm crossroads are hushed
By the window I stand, not expecting a guest.
Limestone blankets the fields, into powder crushed,
And the trees, like horse riders, came to garden to rest.
Sobs of ominous night-bird are in the air,
Hooves of wooden horsemen sprinkle scattered trot.
And again this dark man sinks himself in my chair,
Tips his top hat and flings the folds of his frock.
“Listen, listen!” – he rasps, looking me in the eye,
Bending over with closer and closer creep.
”I have not seen a scoundrel consumed by
Useless, asinine thoughts so as to miss out on sleep.
Ah, perhaps, my mistake. This night’s moon is exquisite.
Drunk with slumber, what else does this little world need?
Maybe, there is “the one”, chubby thighs, furtive visitor,
Comes for you to drone on through your tired rotten screed?
I’m quite fond of you, poets! Such an amusing crowd.
Yours is always the story I know by heart.
A long-haired dork tells acne-riddled girl scout
Of worlds, meanwhile longing with languor to get her in the sack.
I don’t know, can’t recall, this little town
In Kaluga district, perhaps in Ryazan’s,
Where a boy lived, the son of one simple farmer.
He was straw-haired, with azure eyes.
And then he grew up, turned a poet of sorts,
With a slight but memorable lyre.
Had some woman of forty or so years old
That he called ‘naughty girl’ and ‘my dear’…”
“You, dark guest, are a hideous man.
Long ago your disgrace has been spread far and wide.”
I'm enraged, I'm possessed, and I throw my cane
In his sickening mug, aiming straight between eyes.
…Moon is dead, in the window looms blue sunrise
Oh, you night! Night, just what have you stoked?
As I stand in top hat, with no one by my side
I’m alone, and my mirror is broken.
Hear me, hear me, friend.
I’m very, no, seriously ill.
What’s the reason? This pain I do not understand.
As if wind whistles, listen
Over desolate, vacant, still field.
Like a grove, leaves blazing I feel.
And the drink sheds my leaves as I bend.
Head of mine is a-flapping my ears
Like a migrating bird -- wings.
Near my neck, no legs want
To waver and pause; to and fro.
Dark man, here he is,
Dark man, here he is,
On my bed, near me sits, haunts me.
Dark man…
He won’t let me rest all night long.
The dark man
Runs his finger over a horrid tome,
And a-mumbling over me,
As if at a deathbed, a monk drones,
He reads a strange life to me:
Of a swindler, a no good looser without a home.
And my soul is veiled in sadness and fear of him.
Dark man, here he is.
Oh, so dark.
“Listen up, listen,”
He screeches at me,
“In this book, plans a plenty;
Good thoughts and some wonders.
It says, a man used to live
In a haphazard country,
Which ruffians and charlatans
Tear asunder.
In December, that place
Shows off snow, pure as hell,
Which the blizzards spin in
Joyous layers.
Hero of ours adventures befell
He was
A schemer, yet kind
And debonair.
He was well mannered.
A poet, it appears.
Not so brawny,
But with a solid, strong grasp.
And a chic foreign woman
Of some forty plus years
He renamed “his naughty girl”
Called “his love” in the past.
Happiness – he’d say is
A trick of the mind and hands.
All naïve, clumsy souls
As despairing, are always known.
C’est la vie
Life brings pains
And cunning, deceit
As dresses are simply worn.
In downpour and lightning,
When life is a chill,
Or if you loose someone dear,
Just keep on smiling
Switch to “happy” at will,
It’s “Haute art”, young man, do you hear…”
“No, you jest, dark man!,
Don’t dare show me the “light”!
I do not believe
That you’re in the lifeguard trade.
I do not care about
A scandalous young poet’s life
Please, find yourself some pals
And spin yarns elaborate.”
Dark man stirs and stares at me
Looks beyond and yonder.
Rolls his eyes and they turns sickly
Bluish. Vomit… Flee…
“Do not tell me that I am
A thief, crook, and scoundrel,
So shamelessly and rudely
Having swindled somebody.”
………………………………………………………….
Hear me, hear me, friend.
I’m very, no, seriously ill.
What’s the reason? This pain I do not understand.
As if wind whistles, listen
Over desolate, vacant, still field.
Like a grove, leaves blazing I feel.
And the drink sheds my leaves as I bend.
Frosty night. I look at a
Still fork in the road.
It’s just me by the window
No guest and no friend I await.
The whole meadow is covered
With crusty, yet soft snow foam.
Orchard trees are like warriors
Riding to feasts with slow gait.
Somewhere is cryin’
The ominous bird of the even.
Wooden warriors hoofs echo
Clickety clack. And again
This dark man fills my chair
At the stroke of eleven.
Tips his top hat and winks,
Flips his coat tails and starts in same vein…
“Listen, listen,”
He breathes in my face. Hoarse voice…
He leans closer,
And closer. “Don’t mean to spy on you
But I haven’t seen
Other bastards and rogues,
Who by choice,
So needlessly suffer from insomnia.
So, perhaps I am wrong,
Since full moon lights the street,
Is there anything else,
which this slumbering world does desire?
Maybe She’ll come slyly with her
Thick thighs. Will you gravely read,
All your lifeless and sensual
Lyrics to your honest admirer?
Ah, how I love poets!
What curious folks.
One would always discover
Among them, a story so commonplace.
How a long haired guy in
Deep sexual lust tries to coax
A pimply young girl with titillating
Tales of stars and of outer space.
Sweet past… Just remember,
In one small town,
Perhaps in Kaluga,
But maybe… Ryazan.
A boy lived
With peasant folks in a house run down.
A gold haired kid,
Pure blue eyes, who loved to run.
He became an adult
A poet, it appears.
Not so brawny,
But with a solid, strong grasp.
And a chic foreign woman
Of some forty plus years
He renamed “his naughty girl”
Called “his love” in the past.”
“Dark man!
You’re a horrid guest.
The ill fame of your tricks
Is well known by everyone.”
I’m enraged, I’m possessed,
Hurl my walking stick
Towards his mocking mug
And his collarbone.
………………………………………………………..
…Moon has died
The dawn grows rose over the blue.
Mother night!
Is that your brew? You’re in error?
In the top hat I stand.
No one’s there. That’s the truth.
Me... Alone...
With a shattered mirror…
I’m very, no, seriously ill.
What’s the reason? This pain I do not understand.
As if wind whistles, listen
Over desolate, vacant, still field.
Like a grove, leaves blazing I feel.
And the drink sheds my leaves as I bend.
Head of mine is a-flapping my ears
Like a migrating bird -- wings.
Near my neck, no legs want
To waver and pause; to and fro.
Dark man, here he is,
Dark man, here he is,
On my bed, near me sits, haunts me.
Dark man…
He won’t let me rest all night long.
The dark man
Runs his finger over a horrid tome,
And a-mumbling over me,
As if at a deathbed, a monk drones,
He reads a strange life to me:
Of a swindler, a no good looser without a home.
And my soul is veiled in sadness and fear of him.
Dark man, here he is.
Oh, so dark.
“Listen up, listen,”
He screeches at me,
“In this book, plans a plenty;
Good thoughts and some wonders.
It says, a man used to live
In a haphazard country,
Which ruffians and charlatans
Tear asunder.
In December, that place
Shows off snow, pure as hell,
Which the blizzards spin in
Joyous layers.
Hero of ours adventures befell
He was
A schemer, yet kind
And debonair.
He was well mannered.
A poet, it appears.
Not so brawny,
But with a solid, strong grasp.
And a chic foreign woman
Of some forty plus years
He renamed “his naughty girl”
Called “his love” in the past.
Happiness – he’d say is
A trick of the mind and hands.
All naïve, clumsy souls
As despairing, are always known.
C’est la vie
Life brings pains
And cunning, deceit
As dresses are simply worn.
In downpour and lightning,
When life is a chill,
Or if you loose someone dear,
Just keep on smiling
Switch to “happy” at will,
It’s “Haute art”, young man, do you hear…”
“No, you jest, dark man!,
Don’t dare show me the “light”!
I do not believe
That you’re in the lifeguard trade.
I do not care about
A scandalous young poet’s life
Please, find yourself some pals
And spin yarns elaborate.”
Dark man stirs and stares at me
Looks beyond and yonder.
Rolls his eyes and they turns sickly
Bluish. Vomit… Flee…
“Do not tell me that I am
A thief, crook, and scoundrel,
So shamelessly and rudely
Having swindled somebody.”
………………………………………………………….
Hear me, hear me, friend.
I’m very, no, seriously ill.
What’s the reason? This pain I do not understand.
As if wind whistles, listen
Over desolate, vacant, still field.
Like a grove, leaves blazing I feel.
And the drink sheds my leaves as I bend.
Frosty night. I look at a
Still fork in the road.
It’s just me by the window
No guest and no friend I await.
The whole meadow is covered
With crusty, yet soft snow foam.
Orchard trees are like warriors
Riding to feasts with slow gait.
Somewhere is cryin’
The ominous bird of the even.
Wooden warriors hoofs echo
Clickety clack. And again
This dark man fills my chair
At the stroke of eleven.
Tips his top hat and winks,
Flips his coat tails and starts in same vein…
“Listen, listen,”
He breathes in my face. Hoarse voice…
He leans closer,
And closer. “Don’t mean to spy on you
But I haven’t seen
Other bastards and rogues,
Who by choice,
So needlessly suffer from insomnia.
So, perhaps I am wrong,
Since full moon lights the street,
Is there anything else,
which this slumbering world does desire?
Maybe She’ll come slyly with her
Thick thighs. Will you gravely read,
All your lifeless and sensual
Lyrics to your honest admirer?
Ah, how I love poets!
What curious folks.
One would always discover
Among them, a story so commonplace.
How a long haired guy in
Deep sexual lust tries to coax
A pimply young girl with titillating
Tales of stars and of outer space.
Sweet past… Just remember,
In one small town,
Perhaps in Kaluga,
But maybe… Ryazan.
A boy lived
With peasant folks in a house run down.
A gold haired kid,
Pure blue eyes, who loved to run.
He became an adult
A poet, it appears.
Not so brawny,
But with a solid, strong grasp.
And a chic foreign woman
Of some forty plus years
He renamed “his naughty girl”
Called “his love” in the past.”
“Dark man!
You’re a horrid guest.
The ill fame of your tricks
Is well known by everyone.”
I’m enraged, I’m possessed,
Hurl my walking stick
Towards his mocking mug
And his collarbone.
………………………………………………………..
…Moon has died
The dawn grows rose over the blue.
Mother night!
Is that your brew? You’re in error?
In the top hat I stand.
No one’s there. That’s the truth.
Me... Alone...
With a shattered mirror…
- Joined
- Aug 24, 2019
TS Eliot -- "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
"Do I dare disturb the universe?"
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
BY T. S. ELIOTS’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
"Do I dare disturb the universe?"
- Joined
- Jun 6, 2020
Beans, beans, the musical fruit
The more you eat, the more you toot
The more you toot, the better you feel
So let's have beans with every meal
The more you eat, the more you toot
The more you toot, the better you feel
So let's have beans with every meal
- Joined
- Jan 14, 2018
- Joined
- Dec 28, 2014