Maybe I exaggerated when I said 'nearly lost' because of his obscurity, but still more people should be familiar with his poetry. It's just so deliberate, parable-esque. He gives a stanza or two then you sit and think, no flowery language or rhyme. His poetry is masculine in both prose and theme.
I don't know, his poetry defies the stereotypes that most other poetry fits. I might be ignorant but if I am point me to the others.
45 From Black Riders and Other Lines
Tradition, thou art for suckling children, Thou art the enlivening milk for babes; But no meat for men is in thee. Then -- But, alas, we all are babes.
SONNET 130 My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.
It seemed that out of battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through granites which titanic wars had groined. Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned, Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred. Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared With piteous recognition in fixed eyes, Lifting distressful hands as if to bless. And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell. With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained; Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground, And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan. "Strange friend," I said, "here is no cause to mourn." "None," said that other, "save the undone years, The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours, Was my life also; I went hunting wild After the wildest beauty in the world, Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair, But mocks the steady running of the hour, And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here. And of my weeping something had been left, Which must die now. I mean the truth untold, The pity of war, the pity war distilled. Now men will go content with what we have spoiled, Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled. They will be swift with the swiftness of the tigress. None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress. Courage was mine, and I had mystery, Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery: To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled. Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels, I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, Even with truths that lie too deep for taint. I would have poured my spirit without stint But not through wounds; not on the cess of war. Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were. I am the enemy you killed, my friend. I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed. I parried; but my hands were loath and cold. Let us sleep now . . . ."
I'm flippin' through the ave' trying to see some good but everything is still the same in my neighborhood Niggas frown when you up, smile when you down And when you change for the better sheisty fools stop comin' around I see the jealousy and hatin' and the wicked ways We all lost children, praisin' paper, smokin' our lives away Got to the point where I could not decipher day from night She say she love me but all we do now is fuck and fight My conscience fuck with me so much that I can't eat or sleep The other side of selling dope and being out there runnin' the streets And even though I'm gaining street fame coming from this rap game Lustful thinkin' and compulsive drinkin' is a normal thing Some get erased and misplaced trying to win the race Some try to hold onto their place by smokin' with lace But sick drugs and plastic thugs aint going to change the hood I'm smokin' skunk and poppin' the trunk to make me feel good
Here is a sonnet. It's a story from the point of view of a man asking his master if he can ravish a woman, but picks the wrong one, and has to face the consequences.
I was at a party back in 2001 (or maybe 2002), and I found a Shakespearean Fridge Magnet set. A play would have been too long, and I'd have run out of tiles. A sonnet, on the other hand, was just about the right length. It even conforms to the rules of sonnet writing. According to wikipedia:
A Shakespearean, or English, sonnet consists of 14 lines, each line containing ten syllables and written in iambic pentameter, in which a pattern of an unemphasized syllable followed by an emphasized syllable is repeated five times. The rhyme scheme in a Shakespearean sonnet is a-b-a-b, c-d-c-d, e-f-e-f, g-g; the last two lines are a rhyming couplet.
Actually, I noticed it doesn't have the correct rhyme scheme, but it's still pretty close. To be honest, I've never seen any other fridge magnet poetry like this either, so I'm glad I took a photo of my effort when I made it.
Also, I just looked up "dost" because I wasn't sure I used it correctly. It seems dost is "v. Archaic. A second person singular present tense of do." I guess I mixed it up with doth "v. Archaic. A third person singular present tense of do."
I remember the power of Mario's first leap. I awed as he squashed the malevolent Goomba A: He jumped & B: He ran. Simple enough? But wait, What is this question in a box [?] A Mushroom?!!
No not an ordinary mushroom, but the ever elusive Magical Mushroom. I felt bitter sweat Tears when I first bore witness to the most glorific ascension of my life. For I was dumb founded at his 6-byte omnipotence. A God was in my hands.
Then, like the Grail. The glowing flower of power descended into My Mario's hands as a psychedelic beacon of hope for the Princess And all of this on my birthday
Rick Remender just tweeted a link to this. I'd never heard it before, but I like it a lot.
desiderata - by max ehrmann
Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant, they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is perennial as the grass.
Take kindly to the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.
I have many, many favorite poems. However, I have two favorite favorite poems. One is from Browning's My Last Dutchess and the other is Keat's The Eve of St. Agnes.
My Last Duchess That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by the curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess's cheek: perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much," or Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half flush that dies along her throat": such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of you. She had A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace--all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men--good! but thanked Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will Quite clear to such a one, and say, "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse --E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet the company below, then. I repeat The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretense Of mine dowry will be disallowed Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea horse, thought a rarity, Which claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
Now, The Eve of St. Agnes is several pages long and would not be really considerate to the honorable forumites. Therefore, I present the first couple stanza's and a link.
St Agnes' Eve---Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; But no---already had his deathbell rung The joys of all his life were said and sung: His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: Another way he went, and soon among Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.
That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide, From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide: The level chambers, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.
At length burst in the argent revelry, With plume, tiara, and all rich array, Numerous as shadows haunting fairily The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay Of old romance. These let us wish away, And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there, Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, On love, and wing'd St Agnes' saintly care, As she had heard old dames full rnany times declare.
They told her how, upon St Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visions of delight, And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honey'd middle of the night, If ceremonies due they did aright; As, supperless to bed they must retire, And couch supine their beauties, lily white; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: The music, yearning like a God in pain, She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine, Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train Pass by---she heeded not at all: in vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain, But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere; She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.
She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes, Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort, Save to St Agnes and her lambs unshorn, And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.
So, purposing each moment to retire, She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Madeline, But for one moment in the tedious hours, That he might gaze and worship all unseen; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss---in sooth such things have been.
For historical accuracy, you should go with "break" a wild mare.
Much appriciated WindUpBird (sincere) but Historical accuracy does nothing for the feel of the work. "Break" is harsh for the tone i am trying to achieve.
I once knew a man from Nantucket who saw a kid and aimed to fuck it. I told him "No way that's the pedophiles way. Besides, you're a bishop, wait...shit..."
Face most marked with grief, He broke down to deep sadness; All to him was lost.
There once Was a man from Boston, Who drove around in an old british Austin, He had room for his Ass, and a gallon of gas, But his bollocks hung out and he lost 'em
I've been trying to get into poetry lately, and so far Bukowski has been my favorite:
16-bit Intel 8088 chip
with an Apple Macintosh you can't run Radio Shack programs in its disc drive. nor can a Commodore 64 drive read a file you have created on an IBM Personal Computer. both Kaypro and Osborne computers use the CP/M operating system but can't read each other's handwriting for they format (write on) discs in different ways. the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but can't use most programs produced for the IBM Personal Computer unless certain bits and bytes are altered but the wind still blows over Savannah and in the Spring the turkey buzzard struts and flounces before his hens.
beautiful rainbow, with your hue and glow, only when when i notice you, then you go, pretty colors, of red, yellow, green and blue, oh beautiful rainbow, an ode to you.
Shit, I feel like a hack because it's been so long since I've written a proper poem (slam pieces, mostly), but I've turn out two in two days and I feel a lot better than I usually do. It's a really good way to cope, and I used to be (still am, maybe) good at it, so I'll press on, I suppose. Code tags used to preserve spacing. That Night, The smile in your eyes danced Almost as much as the embers from our two cigarettes. And I *knew* because of your sarcastic grin your insatiable wanderlust (and yes, maybe the way your chest was heaving as we spoke for an eternity in the cold) That you were probably someone special. But I knew because I had just met you because I was nervous and self-conscious (and yeah, maybe because I was more than a little drunk) That I couldn't (shouldn't?) kiss you Or *even* ask you out.
But the morning after Hungover Vomiting I realized it was just another wasted opportunity Like so many others.
EDIT: Been futzing over this poem for an hour or two now. Not sure if I can fix it, but I'm pretty dissatisfied.
I just got home a couple days after said event occurred later and was studying for a physics exam, and realized that I couldn't stop seething over not making something happen that night. I couldn't get anything done, so I just wrote that poem (my first in two years) in about fifteen minutes and got back to work.
I do my best work writing by the seat of my pants. Unfortunately, I'm hypercritical of my poetry, so I never know if anything's good until other people see it. Which they usually don't.
So one of the things I do in the SCA is bardic performance, specifically storytelling and poetry recital. Now, I'm a novice, so I'm still getting the hang of things. Viking-age poetry is interesting in that its primary musical element is alliteration, not rhyme.
There are several metric forms of old Norse poetry. The simplest of these forms is called fornyrðislag, which roughly means "the way of ancient words" or some such. It's a metrical form that pre-dates the Vikings, going back to early Anglo-Saxons and before.
The basic structure is a half-line containing about four or five syllables, two of which receive strong stresses and the rest of which are unstressed. A full line consists of two half-lines, joined by alliteration. There are some rules to the alliteration:
1. Alliteration (usually) only happens on strong stresses. 2. The first half-line may have internal alliteration. 3. The first stressed syllable of the second half-line must alliterate with something in the first half-line. 4. The second syllable in the second half-line may not alliterate with the first half-line at all.
Of course, those rules were broken sometimes, but that's generally how it was written. A stanza typically consisted of eight full lines, so 16 half-lines. This is the metrical form used for Beowulf and such, and is used extensively in the sagas and the Eddic writings.
So, I'm learning bits from the saga of Egil Skallagrimsson, and part of what I have to do is re-poeticize the translation I'm using. See, they went for a translation of the meaning of the stanza, and completely sacrificed the poetics. I need to figure out what the translation is saying and re-interpret it into this metrical form.
The story, briefly, is that Egil (a big ugly motherfucker of a Viking, known for his strength and ill temper) was bored one day. He hit up his buddy Olvir and was like, "Yo Olvir, what's the good word." Olvir was all like, "Dude, I gotta go shake down some bitches for some money. Shit sucks. But first, I'ma hit up Atloy. Eirik's got a farm run by this dude named Bard. Dude's got mad ale and the fliest of bitches." Egil thought this sounded like a good deal, so he hopped in the boat and they fucking rowed from Iceland to Norway.
When a man's got to drink, a man's got to drink
When they arrive, Bard is all like, "Shit sons, y'all be soaked. Get your asses next to this fire. And here, have some food. But listen, I'ma level with y'all: ain't no ale in the house. None. Fresh out, yo. Shit sucks, but hey, I'm lettin' you stay for free. So yeah, no ale." The men aren't happy, but they deal because Bard is a cool dude.
So then King Eirik arrives, to hit up this feast that Bard is holding. See, there's going to be a sacrifice tonight, so Bard made up this bigass feast and expected just the King to show up. So the king is there and he's all like, "WHOA, WHERE THE FUCK IS BARD? WHY IS HE NOT WORSHIPPING MY SHIT AT THIS MOMENT?" And someone tells him that he's tending other guests, and the king is like, "ARE THEY THE FUCKING KING?" And the guy is like, no, they work for Thorir the Hersir. And the king is like, "OH, OK. THORIR IS MY HOMIE. SEND THEM IN AND WE'LL HAVE A MAD FUCKING PARTY."
So they have this huge party...and Bard serves ale. Lots and lots and lots of ale. Y'know, the stuff he just told Egil he didn't have.
Egil is displeased. This shit is mad weak. He expresses his displeasure in the most manly fucking way he can: a poem.
So here's a bit that I re-poeticized (I've bolded the stressed syllables):
Tired and wet / weasked to stay - To rest our bones / and bodiesfeed. Generous Bard / brought us no ale; Said you were short / for sacred rite. Silver-tongued serpent, / deceitful gut-worm - You lied to men / who meantno ill! Played Loki's game / to gainking's favor. You have played a bad trick on us.
The last line is not in verse, but I like how it suddenly snaps you out.
So later, Bard and the Queen decide to poison Egil, because he's pissing them off. So they mix poison into a horn and try to give it to him. But Egil is smart: he carves runes onto the horn, cuts his palm and smears the runes with blood, and incants a divination (which I again had to re-write):
Odin, All-Father Open up our eyes. Tell us of Bard's blessing; Tell us what his heart hides. Run quick, ale of ravens; Reveal the ox-tale. Show us the serpent's secret; Show us his gilded gift.
This is a more complex meter called galdralag, which means something like "magic spell chant" or some such. It consists of blocks of 4 lines, and a stanza is two blocks. The first two lines have two strong stresses and are 4 - 5 syllables each. Those two lines are bound by alliteration, following rules much like the "old words" verse. The second two lines are longer (3 stresses), and alliterate internally - they do not alliterate with each other or the previous two lines. Additionally, the last two lines mirror or echo each other. Another example would be:
As whom came War-god hither to the land of men? A fish from the torrent of enemies swimming, A bird against troop of enemies screaming
Finally, after Egil is done with his spell, the horn shatters and spills beer everywhere. Egil was like, "Welp, party's over. Let's go." But fuckin' Bard is like, "No, wait, drink one last toast."
Egil has had enough of this bullshit. This is the last verse he speaks. I am currently stuck: I need to write one half-line and one full line.
Much have I had / of horn's bounty. Of disir-gift / drank Olvir too. Yet more drank straw / and still you poured Till the floor was wet / with wasted gifts. Your wits have gone / - given over to malice and spite - / serpent's venom-bite poisons his heart, / makes home into grave.
And then Egil draws his sword and fucking stabs Bard in the gut.
Because he lied about not having ale.
So if anyone has ideas about my last 3 half-lines, I'd love to hear them. The original (non-poetic) version reads like this:
I'm feeling drunk, and the ale has left Olvir pale in the gills, I let the spray of ox-spears foam over my beard. Your wits have gone, inviter of showers on to shields; now the rain of the high god starts pouring upon you.
So I translated that meaning and wrote the verse above it.
Anyhow, just thought I'd share my current poetical stuff.
EDIT: OMFG MY GIRLFRIEND IS AWESOME. ALSO MY MUSE. LAST LINES FOUND!
You'll note that I broke from form and used 7 lines for that last one. I did that for two reasons:
1. It works well as 7, and fuck it, a skald did what worked. 2. His eight line was stabbing Bard in the gut.
Comments
I don't know, his poetry defies the stereotypes that most other poetry fits. I might be ignorant but if I am point me to the others.
45 From Black Riders and Other Lines
Tradition, thou art for suckling children,
Thou art the enlivening milk for babes;
But no meat for men is in thee.
Then --
But, alas, we all are babes.
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me!
Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth;
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say: My love! why sufferest thou?
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
-William Shakespeare
It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
"Strange friend," I said, "here is no cause to mourn."
"None," said that other, "save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we have spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with the swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now . . . ."
I'm flippin' through the ave' trying to see some good
but everything is still the same in my neighborhood
Niggas frown when you up, smile when you down
And when you change for the better sheisty fools stop comin' around
I see the jealousy and hatin' and the wicked ways
We all lost children, praisin' paper, smokin' our lives away
Got to the point where I could not decipher day from night
She say she love me but all we do now is fuck and fight
My conscience fuck with me so much that I can't eat or sleep
The other side of selling dope and being out there runnin' the streets
And even though I'm gaining street fame coming from this rap game
Lustful thinkin' and compulsive drinkin' is a normal thing
Some get erased and misplaced trying to win the race
Some try to hold onto their place by smokin' with lace
But sick drugs and plastic thugs aint going to change the hood
I'm smokin' skunk and poppin' the trunk to make me feel good
- Chad Butler
I was at a party back in 2001 (or maybe 2002), and I found a Shakespearean Fridge Magnet set. A play would have been too long, and I'd have run out of tiles. A sonnet, on the other hand, was just about the right length. It even conforms to the rules of sonnet writing. According to wikipedia: It even sort of makes sense.
Also, I just looked up "dost" because I wasn't sure I used it correctly. It seems dost is "v. Archaic. A second person singular present tense of do." I guess I mixed it up with doth "v. Archaic. A third person singular present tense of do."
Maybe there wasn't a "doth" tile.
I remember the power of Mario's first leap.
I awed as he squashed the malevolent Goomba
A: He jumped & B: He ran. Simple enough?
But wait, What is this question in a box [?]
A Mushroom?!!
No not an ordinary mushroom, but the ever elusive Magical Mushroom.
I felt bitter sweat Tears when I first bore witness
to the most glorific ascension of my life.
For I was dumb founded at his 6-byte omnipotence.
A God was in my hands.
Then, like the Grail.
The glowing flower of power descended into My Mario's hands
as a psychedelic beacon of hope
for the Princess
And all of this on my birthday
In fond remembrance,
Wyatt Wells
desiderata - by max ehrmann
Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant, they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is perennial as the grass.
Take kindly to the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
My Last Duchess
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
the curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess's cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much," or Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half flush that dies along her throat": such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of you. She had
A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace--all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men--good! but thanked
Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will
Quite clear to such a one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss
Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse
--E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
the company below, then. I repeat
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretense
Of mine dowry will be disallowed
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea horse, thought a rarity,
Which claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
Now, The Eve of St. Agnes is several pages long and would not be really considerate to the honorable forumites. Therefore, I present the first couple stanza's and a link.
St Agnes' Eve---Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
Northward he turneth through a little door,
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor;
But no---already had his deathbell rung
The joys of all his life were said and sung:
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.
That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide,
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide:
The level chambers, ready with their pride,
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.
At length burst in the argent revelry,
With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily
The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay
Of old romance. These let us wish away,
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there,
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
On love, and wing'd St Agnes' saintly care,
As she had heard old dames full rnany times declare.
They told her how, upon St Agnes' Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honey'd middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
The music, yearning like a God in pain,
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
Pass by---she heeded not at all: in vain
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain,
But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere;
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.
She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes,
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:
The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort,
Save to St Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.
So, purposing each moment to retire,
She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors,
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores
All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
But for one moment in the tedious hours,
That he might gaze and worship all unseen;
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss---in sooth such things have been.
Could You? Would You?
by: Victoria May Khaze'
Oh dear refined cowboy,
who rides with such great flare.
Could you? Would you bother
to tame a wild mare?
Would you take up a new saddle
and place it on her back?
Do you think that she would let you
brush her hair, so very black?
Oh dear refined cowboy,
you've trained the weak and strong.
Could you? Would you train the mare
who's waited for so long?
Could you take the time to train her?
Are you sure you would not bore?
Would you treat her with a kindness
that she's never known before?
Oh dear refined cowboy,
Such trophies you have won.
Could you? Would you notice
a mare so very young?
Would you tolerate her bucking?
Would you show her how you ride?
Would you teach her how to trot
and gallop with great pride?
Oh dear refined cowboy,
you ride saddled and back-bare.
Could you? Would you make room
in your stable for this mare?
Requisite brotherly teasing complete.
After Zeno
For my Father
When he was
I was
But I still am
and he is still.
Where is is
when is is was?
I have an is
but where is his?
Now here-
no where:
Such a little
fatal pause.
There's no sense
in past tense."
who saw a kid and aimed to fuck it.
I told him "No way
that's the pedophiles way.
Besides, you're a bishop, wait...shit..."
Face most marked with grief,
He broke down to deep sadness;
All to him was lost.
Who drove around in an old british Austin,
He had room for his Ass,
and a gallon of gas,
But his bollocks hung out and he lost 'em
Down, Wanton, Down!
by Robert Graves
Down, wanton, down! Have you no shame
That at the whisper of Love's name,
Or Beauty's, presto! up you raise
Your angry head and stand at gaze?
Poor bombard-captain, sworn to reach
The ravelin and effect a breach--
Indifferent what you storm or why,
So be that in the breach you die!
Love may be blind, but Love at least
Knows what is man and what mere beast;
Or Beauty wayward, but requires
More delicacy from her squires.
Tell me, my witless, whose one boast
Could be your staunchness at the post,
When were you made a man of parts
To think fine and profess the arts?
Will many-gifted Beauty come
Bowing to your bald rule of thumb,
Or Love swear loyalty to your crown?
Be gone, have done! Down, wanton, down!
16-bit Intel 8088 chip
with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens.
with your hue and glow,
only when when i notice you,
then you go,
pretty colors,
of red, yellow, green and blue,
oh beautiful rainbow,
an ode to you.
That Night,
The smile in your eyes danced
Almost as much as the embers from our two cigarettes.
And I *knew* because of
your sarcastic grin
your insatiable wanderlust
(and yes, maybe the way your chest was
heaving as we spoke for an eternity in the cold)
That you were probably someone special.
But I knew
because I had just met you
because I was nervous and self-conscious
(and yeah, maybe because
I was more than a little drunk)
That I couldn't (shouldn't?) kiss you
Or *even* ask you out.
But the morning after
Hungover
Vomiting
I realized it was just
another
wasted
opportunity
Like so many others.
EDIT: Been futzing over this poem for an hour or two now. Not sure if I can fix it, but I'm pretty dissatisfied.
I do my best work writing by the seat of my pants. Unfortunately, I'm hypercritical of my poetry, so I never know if anything's good until other people see it. Which they usually don't.
The breeze sweeps the jittering leaves
While the sun makes it's daylight
Clouds the size of skyscrapers slip south
Without a single sound
Without regard to our hardened hearts
The artfully uncaring universe continues
too few things are more comforting
than my relative insignificance
debating
in their druken way
who is most pretentious
"Clearly it is I" says the first
"I compose post-modern music
by throwing bits of paper
at a bust of John Cage
and recording the results"
"Pish Posh" says the second
"I once spent two hours
describing
one glass of wine
it was an aromatic blend of-"
"That is nothing" interrupted the third
"I draw stick figures
with goat shit
that are washed away before they're seen
and I charge to see them"
the fourth takes a patient sip
of cheap expenseive-looking liquor
and takes a satisfied draw
from the pipe he made himself
"I" he said
"Write poetry
about my feelings
and post it on the internet."
in the silence that followed
75% awed and 25% smug
the winner was decided
There are several metric forms of old Norse poetry. The simplest of these forms is called fornyrðislag, which roughly means "the way of ancient words" or some such. It's a metrical form that pre-dates the Vikings, going back to early Anglo-Saxons and before.
The basic structure is a half-line containing about four or five syllables, two of which receive strong stresses and the rest of which are unstressed. A full line consists of two half-lines, joined by alliteration. There are some rules to the alliteration:
1. Alliteration (usually) only happens on strong stresses.
2. The first half-line may have internal alliteration.
3. The first stressed syllable of the second half-line must alliterate with something in the first half-line.
4. The second syllable in the second half-line may not alliterate with the first half-line at all.
Of course, those rules were broken sometimes, but that's generally how it was written. A stanza typically consisted of eight full lines, so 16 half-lines. This is the metrical form used for Beowulf and such, and is used extensively in the sagas and the Eddic writings.
So, I'm learning bits from the saga of Egil Skallagrimsson, and part of what I have to do is re-poeticize the translation I'm using. See, they went for a translation of the meaning of the stanza, and completely sacrificed the poetics. I need to figure out what the translation is saying and re-interpret it into this metrical form.
The story, briefly, is that Egil (a big ugly motherfucker of a Viking, known for his strength and ill temper) was bored one day. He hit up his buddy Olvir and was like, "Yo Olvir, what's the good word." Olvir was all like, "Dude, I gotta go shake down some bitches for some money. Shit sucks. But first, I'ma hit up Atloy. Eirik's got a farm run by this dude named Bard. Dude's got mad ale and the fliest of bitches." Egil thought this sounded like a good deal, so he hopped in the boat and they fucking rowed from Iceland to Norway.
When a man's got to drink, a man's got to drink
When they arrive, Bard is all like, "Shit sons, y'all be soaked. Get your asses next to this fire. And here, have some food. But listen, I'ma level with y'all: ain't no ale in the house. None. Fresh out, yo. Shit sucks, but hey, I'm lettin' you stay for free. So yeah, no ale." The men aren't happy, but they deal because Bard is a cool dude.
So then King Eirik arrives, to hit up this feast that Bard is holding. See, there's going to be a sacrifice tonight, so Bard made up this bigass feast and expected just the King to show up. So the king is there and he's all like, "WHOA, WHERE THE FUCK IS BARD? WHY IS HE NOT WORSHIPPING MY SHIT AT THIS MOMENT?" And someone tells him that he's tending other guests, and the king is like, "ARE THEY THE FUCKING KING?" And the guy is like, no, they work for Thorir the Hersir. And the king is like, "OH, OK. THORIR IS MY HOMIE. SEND THEM IN AND WE'LL HAVE A MAD FUCKING PARTY."
So they have this huge party...and Bard serves ale. Lots and lots and lots of ale. Y'know, the stuff he just told Egil he didn't have.
Egil is displeased. This shit is mad weak. He expresses his displeasure in the most manly fucking way he can: a poem.
So here's a bit that I re-poeticized (I've bolded the stressed syllables): The last line is not in verse, but I like how it suddenly snaps you out.
So later, Bard and the Queen decide to poison Egil, because he's pissing them off. So they mix poison into a horn and try to give it to him. But Egil is smart: he carves runes onto the horn, cuts his palm and smears the runes with blood, and incants a divination (which I again had to re-write):
Odin, All-FatherOpen up our eyes.
Tell us of Bard's blessing;
Tell us what his heart hides.
Run quick, ale of ravens;
Reveal the ox-tale.
Show us the serpent's secret;
Show us his gilded gift.
This is a more complex meter called galdralag, which means something like "magic spell chant" or some such. It consists of blocks of 4 lines, and a stanza is two blocks. The first two lines have two strong stresses and are 4 - 5 syllables each. Those two lines are bound by alliteration, following rules much like the "old words" verse. The second two lines are longer (3 stresses), and alliterate internally - they do not alliterate with each other or the previous two lines. Additionally, the last two lines mirror or echo each other. Another example would be:
As whom came War-godhither to the land of men?
A fish from the torrent of enemies swimming,
A bird against troop of enemies screaming
Finally, after Egil is done with his spell, the horn shatters and spills beer everywhere. Egil was like, "Welp, party's over. Let's go." But fuckin' Bard is like, "No, wait, drink one last toast."
Egil has had enough of this bullshit. This is the last verse he speaks. I am currently stuck: I need to write one half-line and one full line.
Much have I had / of horn's bounty.Of disir-gift / drank Olvir too.
Yet more drank straw / and still you poured
Till the floor was wet / with wasted gifts.
Your wits have gone / - given over
to malice and spite - / serpent's venom-bite
poisons his heart, / makes home into grave.
And then Egil draws his sword and fucking stabs Bard in the gut.
Because he lied about not having ale.
So if anyone has ideas about my last 3 half-lines, I'd love to hear them. The original (non-poetic) version reads like this:
I'm feeling drunk, and the alehas left Olvir pale in the gills,
I let the spray of ox-spears
foam over my beard.
Your wits have gone, inviter
of showers on to shields;
now the rain of the high god
starts pouring upon you.
So I translated that meaning and wrote the verse above it.
Anyhow, just thought I'd share my current poetical stuff.
EDIT: OMFG MY GIRLFRIEND IS AWESOME. ALSO MY MUSE. LAST LINES FOUND!
You'll note that I broke from form and used 7 lines for that last one. I did that for two reasons:
1. It works well as 7, and fuck it, a skald did what worked.
2. His eight line was stabbing Bard in the gut.