Poetry

[Brisler]

Oh my god. Wouldn't it have been effin neat, if my spellcheck hadn't misspelled poetry in the title? Can't that be edited?

 

[Brisler]

There you go, and get going!

 

[Brisler]

Okay, sorry, I will try to get the thread back on track with a true giant of poetry. This is Der Erlkönig by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. This poem is based on Nordic folk tales of The daughters of the Elf King, who enchant and kill human beings. In this poem the "Alder King" is the aggressor, and I guess this could be seen as an early attempt at a "horror adaptation". Even though folk tales contain lots of horror elements, I tend to consider them something else, a very enclosed genre in its own. Anyway, Der Erlkönig. Check out the original German poem, if you are able to read German and doesn't already know it. It is, of course, superior.



Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
The father it is, with his infant so dear;
He holdeth the boy tightly clasp'd in his arm,
He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.

"My son, wherefore seek'st thou thy face thus to hide?"
"Look, father, the Alder King is close by our side!
Dost see not the Alder King, with crown and with train?"
"My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain."

"Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh come thou with me!
For many a game I will play there with thee;
On my beach, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold."

"My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
The words that the Alder King now breathes in mine ear?"
"Be calm, dearest child, thy fancy deceives;
the wind is sighing through withering leaves."

"Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care
My daughters by night on the dance floor you lead,
They'll cradle and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep."

"My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
How the Alder King is showing his daughters to me?"
"My darling, my darling, I see it aright,
'Tis the aged grey willows deceiving thy sight."

"I love thee, I'm charm'd by thy beauty, dear boy!
And if thou aren't willing, then force I'll employ."
"My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
For sorely the Alder King has hurt me at last."

The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He holds in his arms the shuddering child;
He reaches his farmstead with toil and dread, –
The child in his arms lies motionless, dead.

They don't write 'em like that anymore, do they?

 

[jojolongdong]

Thank you Brisler for introducing a new and thought-provoking Thread.
I loved the one above by Goethe, and staying on the theme of death, there's a short poem by W H Auden which I particularly like because of it's simplicity but I can't find it at the moment.
So I'll submit this whilst I look for it;

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

by W H Auden

featured in the film 'Four Weddings and a Funeral'
Four Weddings and a Funeral - "Funeral Blues" - YouTube

 

[Brisler]

Thank you and thank you for contributing!

I'm not Audens greatest fan, but I hope you will be able to find the poem in question. The quoted Auden poem somehow reminded me of "Do not stand on my grave and weep" by Mary Elisabeth Frye, which is almost the exact opposite. While it's by no means the greatest poem in the world, I can see why it is so popular. It is somehow touching in all its banal and pathos-filled grandiosity:


Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

 

[jojolongdong]

I found the poem I was thinking about.
I think this one is rather apt;

'as the poets have mournfully sung,
death takes the innocent young,
the rolling-in-money, the screamingly funny,
and those who are very well hung.'

by W H Auden

Hoping this inspires others to contribute to the Thread.

 

[Brisler]

I found the poem I was thinking about.
I think this one is rather apt;

'as the poets have mournfully sung,
death takes the innocent young,
the rolling-in-money, the screamingly funny,
and those who are very well hung.'

by W H Auden

Hoping this inspires others to contribute to the Thread.

I was wondering how long it would take for the first penis size joke to appear, heh. You are right - very apt indeed!

And i guess it has to be, since it's limerick. Not my favorite art form, but the wordplay on "hung" is somewhat amusing, I must admit. :wink:

 

[Brisler]

Come on, guys! Jojolongdong can't be the only one interested in poetry!

 

[Mr. Snakey]

Jack be nimble .Jack be quick. Jack slipped and burned his dick'

Jack jump quick. Jack jump fast. Jack slipped and burned his ass.

Good morning ladies, said the blind man as he passed by the fish market.

 

[Brisler]

Jack be nimble .Jack be quick. Jack slipped and burned his dick'

Jack jump quick. Jack jump fast. Jack slipped and burned his ass.

Good morning ladies, said the blind man as he passed by the fish market.

Please go and culture yourself, you dimwit. :wink:

 

[Brisler]

This one is long, but I promise you it is brilliant, and it pretty much sums up how I feel about this thread, jojolongdong not included, of course.

Thomas Ligotti - I have a special plan for this world:

When everyone you have ever loved is finally gone
When everything you have ever wanted is finally done with
When all of your nightmares are for a time obscured
As by a shining brainless beacon
Or a blinding eclipse of the many terrible shapes of this world
When you are calm and joyful
And finally entirely alone
Then in a great new darkness
You will finally execute your special plan

One needs to have a plan someone said who was turned away into the shadows
And who I had believed was sleeping or dead
Imagine he said all the flesh that is eaten
The teeth tearing into it
The tongue tasting it's savour
And the hunger for that taste
Now take away that flesh he said
Take away the teeth and the tongue
The taste and the hunger
Take away everything as it is
That was my plan
My own special plan for this world
I listened to these words and yet I did not wonder
If this creature whom I had thought sleeping or dead would ever approach his vision
Even in his deepest dreams
Or his most lasting death
Because I had heard of such plans such visions
And I knew they did not see far enough
But what was demanded in a way of a plan
Needed to go beyond tongue and teeth and hunger and flesh
Beyond the bones and the very dust of bones and the wind that would come to blow the dust away
And so I began to envision a darkness that was long before the dark of night
And a strangely shining light
That owed nothing to the light of day

That day may seem like other days
Once more we feel the tiny legged trepidations
Once more we are mangled by a great grinding fear
But that day will have no others after
No more worlds like this will follow
Because I have a plan
A very special plan
No more worlds like this
No more days like that

There are but four ways to die a sardonic spirit might have said to me
There is dying that occurs relatively suddenly
There is dying that occurs relatively gradually
There is dying that occurs relatively painlessly
There is the death that is full of pain
Thus by various means they are combined
The sudden and the gradual
The painless and the painful
To yield but four ways to die
And there are no others
Even after the voice stopped speaking
I listened for it to speak again
After hours and day and years have passed
I listened for some further words
Yet all I heard were the faintest echoes reminding me
There are no others
There are no others
Was it then that I began to conceive for this world
A special plan?

There are no means for escaping this world
It penetrates even into your sleep
And is his substance
You are caught in your own dreaming
Where there is no space
And a hell forever where there is no time
You can't do nothing you aren't told to do
There is no hope for escape from this dream
That was never yours
The very words you speak are only it's very words
And you talk like a traitor
Under it's incessant torture

There are many who have designs upon this world
And dream of wild and vast reformations
I have heard them talking in their sleep
Of elegant mutations
And cunning annihilations
I have heard them whispering in the corners of crooked houses
And in the alleys and narrow back streets of this crooked creaking universe
Which they with their new designs were made straight and sound
But each of these new and ill conceived designs
Is deranged in it's heart
For they see this world as if it were alone and original
And not as only one of count with others
Whose nightmares all precede
Like a hideous garden grown from a single seed
I have heard these dreamers talking in their sleep
And I stand waiting for them
As at the top of a darkened flight of stairs
They know nothing of me
And none of the secrets of my special plan
While I know every crooked creaking step of theirs

It was the voice of someone who was waiting in the shadows
Who was looking at the moon and waiting for me to turn the corner
And enter a narrow street
And stand with him in the dull glaze of moonlight
Then he said to me
He whispered
That my plan was misconceived
That my special plan for this world was a terrible mistake
Because, he said, there is nothing to do and there is no where to go
There is nothing to be and there is no one to know
Your plan is a mistake, he repeated
This world is a mistake, I replied

The children always followed him
When they saw him hopping by
A funny walk
A funny man
A funny, funny, funny man
He made them laugh sometimes
He made them laugh oh yes he did
He did he did he did he did
Oh how he made them roll
One day he took them to a place
He knew a special place
And told them things about this world
This funny, funny, funny world
Which made them laugh sometimes
He made them laugh oh yes he did
He did he did he did he did
Oh how he made them roll
Then the funny man who made them laugh
Sometimes he did
Revealed to them his special plan
His very special funny plan
Knowing they would understand
And maybe laugh sometimes
He made them laugh
Oh yes he did
He did he did he did he did
Their eyes grew wide beneath there lids
And how he made them roll

I first learned the facts from a lunatic
In a dark and quiet room that smelled of stale time and space
There are no people
Nothing at all like that
The human phenomenon is but the sum of densely coiled layers of illusion
Each of which winds itself upon the supreme insanity
But there are persons of any kind
When all that can be is mindless mirrors
Laughing and screaming as they parade about
In an endless dream
But when I asked the lunatic what it was
It swore itself within these mirrors
As they marched endlessly in stale time and space
He only looked and smiled
Then he laughed and screamed
And in his black and empty eyes
I saw for a moment as in a mirror
A form the shade of divinity
In flight from it's stale infinity
Of time and space and the worst of all
Of this world's dreams
My special plan for the laughter
And the screams

We went to see some little show
That was staged in an old shed
Past the edge of town
And in it's beginnings all seemed well
The miniature curtain stage glowed in the darkness
While those dolls bounced along on their strings before our eyes
And in it's beginnings all seemed well
But then there came a subtle turning point which some have noticed
And I was one
Who quietly left the show
No I did not
Because I could see where things were going
As the antics of those dolls grew strange
And the fragile strings grew taut
With their tiny pullings, tiny limbs
The others around me became appalled
And turned away and abandoned the show
That was staged in an old shed
Past the edge of town
But I wanted to witness what could never be
I wanted to see what could not be seen
But the moment of consummate disaster
My puppets turned to face the puppet master

It was twilight and I stood in a greyish haze of the vast empty building
When the silence was enriched by a reverberant voice
All the things of this world it said
Are of but one essence
For which there are no words
This is the greater part which has no beginning or end
And the one essence of this world for which there can be no words
Is that all the things of this world
This is the lesser part which had a beginning and shall have an end
And for which words were conceived solely to speak of
The tiny broken beings of this world it said
The beginnings and endings of this world it said
For which words were conceived solely to speak of
Now remove these words and what remains it asks me
As I stood in the twilight of that vast empty building
But I did not answer
The question echoed over and over
But I remained silent until the echoes died
And as twilight passed into the evening I felt my
Special plan for which there are no words
Moving towards a greater darkness

There are some who have no voices
Or none that will ever speak
Because of the things they know about this world
And the things they feel about this world
Because the thoughts that fill a brain
That is a damaged brain
Because the pain that fills a body
That is a damaged body
Exists in other worlds
Countless other worlds
Each of which stands alone in an infinite empty blackness
For which no words are being conceived
And where no voices are able to speak
When a brain is filled only with damaged thoughts
When a damaged body is filled only with pain
And stands alone in a world surrounded by infinite empty blackness
And exists in a world for which there is no special plan

When everyone you have ever loved is finally gone
When everything you have ever wanted is finally done with
When all of your nightmares are for a time obscured
As by a shining brainless beacon
Or a blinding eclipse of the many terrible shapes of this world
When you are calm and joyful
And finally entirely alone
Then in a great new darkness
You will finally execute your special plan

 

[B_Shurewood]

Short and sweet ...

To Know All Is To Forgive All

If I knew you and you knew me,
If both of us could clearly see,
And with an inner sight divine
The meaning of your heart and mine,
I'm sure that we would differ less
And clasp our hands in friendliness;
Our thoughts would pleasantly agree
If I knew you and you knew me.

If I knew you and you knew me,
As each one knows his own self, we
Could look each other in the face
And see therein a truer grace.
Life has so many hidden woes,
So many thorns for every rose;
The "why" of things our hearts would see,
If I knew you and you knew me.

== Nixon Waterman ==
1859-1944

 

[Mr. Snakey]

Very good.

 

[Hoss]

Jack be nimble .Jack be quick. Jack slipped and burned his dick'

Jack jump quick. Jack jump fast. Jack slipped and burned his ass.

Good morning ladies, said the blind man as he passed by the fish market.

Nicely done!:smile: not only has rhythm it brings a smile to the face:smile:

Please go and culture yourself, you dimwit. :wink:

Culture can be found in yogurt and research labs.

As far as poetry everybody has their own style and taste. Same holds in all the arts.

 

[Mr. Snakey]

Please go and culture yourself, you dimwit. :wink:

Go fuck yourself.

 

[Brisler]

Nicely done!:smile: not only has rhythm it brings a smile to the face:smile:


Culture can be found in yogurt and research labs.

As far as poetry everybody has their own style and taste. Same holds in all the arts.

I know. Mr. Snakey was joking around on the topic, so I thought I would give him some of his own medicine. As the smiley was supposed to show, my insult was nothing to be taken seriously.

Sorry if I offended you, Mr. Snakey, but I am not blind to your mockery and I thought you could take a little shtick yourself.

 

[Mr. Snakey]

I know. Mr. Snakey was joking around on the topic, so I thought I would give him some of his own medicine. As the smiley was supposed to show, my insult was nothing to be taken seriously.

Sorry if I offended you, Mr. Snakey, but I am not blind to your mockery and I thought you could take a little shtick yourself.

No problem my friend, No harm intended. No harm taken.

 

[B_Shurewood]

Michael Jackson sang "Man In The Mirror" ...
but years before, there was this poem:

The Man In The Glass :smile:
=====================================
When you get what you want in your struggle for self
And the world makes you king for a day
Just go to the mirror and look at yourself
And see what that man has to say.

For it isn’t your father, or mother, or wife
Whose judgment upon you must pass
The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the one staring back from the glass.

He’s the fellow to please – never mind all the rest
For he’s with you, clear to the end
And you’ve passed your most difficult, dangerous test
If the man in the glass is your friend.

You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years
And get pats on the back as you pass
But your final reward will be heartache and tears
If you’ve cheated the man in the glass.
=======================================

"The Man In The Glass" by Peter Dale Wimbrow, Sr.
(This poem was first published in 1934.)

 

[Brisler]

Great contributions, Shurewood. I know way too little about classic, American poetry. I guess my knowledge is pretty much limited to the horror genre, with the exception of some of the most well-known American poets.

Which poems are being force-fed in school to American youngsters? I think half of the people in Europe have been forced to read The Tyger by William Blake in school. And since most youngsters hate poetry, especially when it's being forced upon them, this has resulted in many people remembering William Blake and The Tyger with unease. I don't know if this is the case in America, but it really is a shame, 'cause it's no coincidence that this is one the really classic poems. Its rhythm is absolutely sublime, almost making me forget the words, which I guess deal with the incomprehensibility of a/the divine creator and the duality in man. I guess the poem could be said to be self-reflecting as well, pointing at the creation of art in general. In either case, I think it is the tightest and most well-written poem I have ever read:



Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

 

[Brisler]

Emily Dickinson - It was not Death, for I stood up

It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down—
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.

It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Sirocos—crawl—
Nor Fire—for just my Marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool—

And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine—

As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And 'twas like Midnight, some—

When everything that ticked—has stopped—
And Space stares all around—
Or Grisly frosts—first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground—

But, most, like Chaos—Stopless—cool—
Without a Chance, or Spar—
Or even a Report of Land—
To justify—Despair.

If you want to know how I feel about this tremendous piece of poetry, you need only ask. You know that, right?