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A Favorite Poem 
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Post Re: A Favorite Poem
I've really enjoyed reading all your guys' favorite poems! My favorite poem is probably Kipling with Dickinson coming in a close second. My favoritre poem is eloisa to abelard by alexander pope. I would post it but it's rather long and I don't want to take up alot of room. I highly encourage people to look it up though.



Sat Sep 01, 2012 2:00 pm
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Last edited by Nelson60 on Tue Jun 03, 2014 6:54 pm, edited 1 time in total.



Fri Aug 02, 2013 4:47 am
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Post Re: A Favorite Poem
Ever since I heard the Smugglers Song on 'Poetry Please', i've loved it. at the time I couldn't hear what was being said very well so I didn't know who it was by, when I discovered it was by Rudyard kipling he became one of my favorite poets. I love the flow, the rhythm and the debate. We had a very long disscusion about who was talking and what was the message that Kipling wished to get across, if any. This served to set my interest blazing even brighter in Kipling and his poems. My gran bought me a book of his poetry, so then i got into 'If' aswell.

[color=#FF0000]IF you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,
Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street,
Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie.
Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by.

Five and twenty ponies,
Trotting through the dark -
Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk.
Laces for a lady; letters for a spy,
Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by!

Running round the woodlump if you chance to find
Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,
Don't you shout to come and look, nor use 'em for your play.
Put the brishwood back again - and they'll be gone next day !

If you see the stable-door setting open wide;
If you see a tired horse lying down inside;
If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;
If the lining's wet and warm - don't you ask no more !

If you meet King George's men, dressed in blue and red,
You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.
If they call you " pretty maid," and chuck you 'neath the chin,
Don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been !

Knocks and footsteps round the house - whistles after dark -
You've no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.
Trusty's here, and Pincher's here, and see how dumb they lie
They don't fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by !

'If You do as you've been told, 'likely there's a chance,
You'll be give a dainty doll, all the way from France,
With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood -
A present from the Gentlemen, along 'o being good !

Five and twenty ponies,
Trotting through the dark -
Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk.
Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie -
Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by !
[/color][/color]

this is my first post so i'm a bit nervous, hope you enjoy! :blush:



Wed Aug 14, 2013 4:53 pm
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Post Re: GentleReader9
wegelin wrote:
Dear GentleReader9:

Do you know the author of that translation of "The Sorcerer's Apprentice" of which you posted an excerpt?

Thanks

wegelin




Wegelin,
the author was Joseph R. Auslander, first Poet Laureate of the USA (1937-1941), and
Consultant in English Poetry at Library of Congress.

This is the poem text from the back of the original LP RCA Victor LM-1803 - Peter & the Wolf/Sorcerer's Apprentice etc. Richard Hale narrated the poem.

The Sorcerer's Apprentice

Creative Translation of the Goethe Text
by Joseph Auslander

So he's gone, the wise old wizard,
And for once alone I find me;
And I feel it in my gizzard
I can make his spirits mind me.
Each look, each word he muttered
I marked. With much ado,
With spirits nicely buttered
I'll make magic too.

Wander! Wander!
Faster! Faster!
Fetch your master
Water gushing
From the fountain! Let it thunder
Down the bath in torrents rushing!

Now come, old broom! Stop acting surly!
Wrap the ragged ragmops round you!
You have served him late and early;
To my bidding now I've bound you.
With two legs for prancing,
A head and hands galore,
Quick, some necromancing -
Make that bucket pour!

Wander! Wander!
Faster! Faster!
Fetch your master
Water gushing
From the fountain! Let it thunder
Down the bath in torrents rushing!

Look! Down to the shore he's pouncing;
There! He's at the stream already;
Back like lightning see the bouncing
Rascal pour his pails right steady.
Once more! Watch him hasten!
High the bath-floor swills;
Now each trough and basin
Sloshes to the gills!

Hoa there! Stay now!
Thumping measure
Of your treasure
Have you given!
Blast my luck, what do I say now?
Mind's a blank, so help me Heaven!

Where's the word that marks the Master?
What's the word that halts the slave?
Lord, the rogue runs ever faster!
My old broom's a churlish knave!
Without further warrant,
Back and forth hops he,
Torrent upon torrent
Splashing over me.

Nay, no longer
Shall it ease him;
Nay, I'll seize him!
Curse such creatures!
As he runs, the imp grows stronger.
Look, what gestures! See, what features!

O you sprig of hell, unblushing!
Won't you stop until you've drowned me?
Over sills already rushing,
Walls of water rise around me.
Blasted broomstick, never
Will you quit this game?
Be a broom forever!
Stand stock still for shame!

Do you still
Refuse to hear me?
Now, then, fear me!
Now I'll stop you!
Come, O sharp-toothed axe, and kill!
Head from trunk, old stick, I'll chop you!

Ah, he comes towards me wobblin'!
Now I'll snatch him! How I'll split him!
Swift I'll cut you down, old goblin!
Bing! Bang! Hear the keen blade hit him!
Oh, such a bold stroke surely!
Now he's cleft in twain!
Now I'll hope securely,
I may breathe again!

Oh, help! Another!
Both halves, leaping,
Hurry heaping
Water, water!
Each half vying with his brother!
Heavens! Spare me further slaughter!

Wet and wetter still they scamper
Up the stairs and through the hall now!
What a deluge! What a damper!
Lord and Master, hear me bawl now! . . .
Ah, at last the Master!
Lord, your imps run free!
Messed up in disaster,
Take a squint at me!

Back you tumble,
Broom! Broom!
Back to gloom
Of mop and plaster!
Pay no mind what greenhorns mumble!
You jump only for your master!



Sat Aug 13, 2016 7:40 am
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Post Re: Delight in Disorder
Saffron wrote:
Now that we've mentioned the poem "Delight in Disorder" so many times, I think we should have it!


DELIGHT IN DISORDER.
by Robert Herrick


A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness :
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction :
An erring lace which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher :
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly :
A winning wave (deserving note)
In the tempestuous petticoat :
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility :
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.




MY Love in her attire doth shew her wit,
It doth so well become her:
For every season she hath dressings fit,
For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No beauty she doth miss 5
When all her robes are on:
But Beauty’s self she is
When all her robes are gone.
-- Anonymous

Robert Herrick was a strange sort of cleric.
Another one was John Donne.
-- Ogden Nash


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It is what you read when you don’t have to that determines what you will be when you can’t help it.

–Oscar Wilde


Tue Nov 21, 2017 5:55 am
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Post Re: A Favorite Poem
I don't think we've had A.E. Housman yet. I find this poem funny, sad and true. So I figure it's a darned fine poem.

`Terence, this is stupid stuff:
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There's nothing much amiss, 'tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the belly-ache.

The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, 'tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.
Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.'

Why, if 'tis dancing you would be,
There's brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to man.

Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world's not.
And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past:
The mischief is that 'twill not last.

Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried half way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I've lain,
Happy till I woke again.


Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.

Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure
Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure,
I'd face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good.

'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale
Is not so brisk a brew as ale:
Out of a stem that scored the hand
I wrung it in a weary land.
But take it: if the smack is sour
The better for the embittered hour;
It will do good to heart and head
When your soul is in my soul's stead;
And I will friend you, if I may,
In the dark and cloudy day.

There was a king reigned in the East:
There, when kings will sit to feast,
They get their fill before they think
With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.
He gathered all that sprang to birth
From the many-venomed earth;
First a little, thence to more,
He sampled all her killing store;
And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,
Sate the king when healths went round.

They put arsenic in his meat
And stared aghast to watch him eat;
They poured strychnine in his cup
And shook to see him drink it up:
They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:
Them it was their poison hurt.
-- I tell the tale that I heard told.
Mithridates, he died old.


_________________
It is what you read when you don’t have to that determines what you will be when you can’t help it.

–Oscar Wilde


Tue Nov 21, 2017 6:06 am
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Post Re: A Favorite Poem
She's so famous for her biting wit, book and theatre reviews that sometimes her poetry is overlooked. Oh, and she rocks my world.


Symptom Recital

I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.
--Dorothy Parker

Résumé

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.




From A Letter From Lesbia


... So, praise the gods, Catullus is away!
And let me tend you this advice, my dear:
Take any lover that you will, or may,
Except a poet. All of them are queer.

It's just the same- a quarrel or a kiss
Is but a tune to play upon his pipe.
He's always hymning that or wailing this;
Myself, I much prefer the business type.

That thing he wrote, the time the sparrow died-
(Oh, most unpleasant- gloomy, tedious words!)
I called it sweet, and made believe I cried;
The stupid fool! I've always hated birds....


The Maid-Servant At The Inn

"It's queer," she said; "I see the light
As plain as I beheld it then,
All silver-like and calm and bright-
We've not had stars like that again!

"And she was such a gentle thing
To birth a baby in the cold.
The barn was dark and frightening-
This new one's better than the old.

"I mind my eyes were full of tears,
For I was young, and quick distressed,
But she was less than me in years
That held a son against her breast.

"I never saw a sweeter child-
The little one, the darling one!-
I mind I told her, when he smiled
You'd know he was his mother's son.

"It's queer that I should see them so-
The time they came to Bethlehem
Was more than thirty years ago;
I've prayed that all is well with them."


Yeah, she sends me.


_________________
It is what you read when you don’t have to that determines what you will be when you can’t help it.

–Oscar Wilde


Tue Nov 21, 2017 6:27 am
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