[Amirmsheesk]

The problem is that most poetry is crap, written by crap writers.

But check out my "18 April 1775" thread on the the History Thread.

[Erossycuc]

Originally posted by Barnabas
I am completely untouched by it

When it is read out loud it sounds like blah blah blah to me

And when I read it, I feel like I am wasting my time, because it is not a story, so it is like I am reading nothing Generally speaking, that's how I feel about it. Then again, I don't spend any time looking for poetry I like.

-Arrian

[Terinalo]

Sometimes you find something that touches you, sometimes you find something that just sounds good. Most of the time it's crap.

I will say Goethe changed my impressions of German.

[UvjqTVVC]

Originally posted by SlowwHand
Everyone sucks but you, huh? Me?? My thread feature's Longfellow's The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere.

BTW everyone: Happy Lexington & Concord Day.

[Nurfzerne]

Oh come on! Subhumans like it too:

How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!

How cheerfully he seems to grin
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!

...Lewis Carroll

[nabsgood]

People don't enjoy poetry, they pretend to enjoy it (see OB's post).

[Mereebirl]

There once was a young lad from Nantucket ...

[tyclislavaify]

Originally posted by Asher

Poetry sucks, with the exception of awesome song lyrics. True

[tuszit]

poetry slams at college coffee shops royally suck though

Jon Miller

[Xutrsavf]

Originally posted by Barnabas
And when I read it, I feel like I am wasting my time, because it is not a story, so it is like I am reading nothing Err? "The Illiad"? Dante's "Inferno"? Both are famous epic poems which have very rich stories.

[Chiquita]

"If the glove don't fit,
You must acquit!"

[ambiddetcat]

"Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!" was the only type of poetry I ever got into - and only because it was war-porn, not because it was poetry.

I agree with those who say that it's lyrics without the music, therefore fundamentally lacking.

[TorryJens]

OK, here's the whole thing

Wilfred Owen, Dulce et Decorum est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in.
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

[bettingonosports]

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out!
She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans,
Candy the yams and spice the hams,
And though her daddy would scream and shout,
She simply would not take the garbage out.
And so it piled up to the ceilings:
Coffee grounds, potato peelings,
Brown bananas, rotten peas,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It cracked the window and blocked the door
With bacon rinds and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel,
Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans and tangerines,
Crusts of black burned buttered toast,
Gristly bits of beefy roasts. . .
The garbage rolled on down the hall,
It raised the roof, it broke the wall. . .
Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,
Globs of gooey bubble gum,
Cellophane from green baloney,
Rubbery blubbery macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk and crusts of pie,
Moldy melons, dried-up mustard,
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,
Cold french fried and rancid meat,
Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.
At last the garbage reached so high
That it finally touched the sky.
And all the neighbors moved away,
And none of her friends would come to play.
And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said,
"OK, I'll take the garbage out!"
But then, of course, it was too late. . .
The garbage reached across the state,
From New York to the Golden Gate.
And there, in the garbage she did hate,
Poor Sarah met an awful fate,
That I cannot now relate
Because the hour is much too late.
But children, remember Sarah Stout
And always take the garbage out!

...Shel Silverstein, 1974

[imnaone]

三民主義，吾黨所宗，
以建民國，以進大同。
咨爾多士，為民前鋒；
夙夜匪懈，主義是從。
矢勤矢勇，必信必忠；
一心一德，貫徹始終。

[CedssypeEdids]

Poetry builds its own rythm, if you can't see it you're addicted to being spoon-fed rythm-in-a-can (i.e. music).

[addifttiest]

Originally posted by Geronimo


can you transliterate that into some sort of phonetic equivalent? For the first:

Kimi ga yo wa
Chiyo ni
Yachiyo ni
Sazare ishi no
Iwao to narite
Koke no musu made

And the second:

Sānmín Zhǔyì, wú dǎng suǒ zōng,
Yǐ jiàn Mínguó, yǐ jìn Dàtóng.
Zī ěr duō shì, wèi mín qiánfēng;
Sù yè fěi xiè, Zhǔyì shì cóng.
Shǐ qín shǐ yǒng, bì xìn bì zhōng;
Yì xīn yì dé, guànchè shǐ zhōng.

[IodinkBoilk]

Originally posted by Tacc


For the first:

Kimi ga yo wa
Chiyo ni
Yachiyo ni
Sazare ishi no
Iwao to narite
Koke no musu made

And the second:

Sānmín Zhǔyì, wú dǎng suǒ zōng,
Yǐ jiàn Mínguó, yǐ jìn Dàtóng.
Zī ěr duō shì, wèi mín qiánfēng;
Sù yè fěi xiè, Zhǔyì shì cóng.
Shǐ qín shǐ yǒng, bì xìn bì zhōng;
Yì xīn yì dé, guànchè shǐ zhōng. Thanks!

Is the second one a tonal language? are the tonal rules for wording relaxed in poetry?

I think poetry works best for me when it's short. It's the lengthy poems that I really find a tiring bore.

[Garry Richardson]

Poetry builds its own rythm, if you can't see it you're addicted to being spoon-fed rythm-in-a-can (i.e. music). Don't dis music

Originally posted by Oncle Boris
Most of the greatest poems out there make terrible songs.

There's a reason. Léo Ferré did pretty well. His Verlaine/Rimbaud is amazing.

[newpiknicker]

Where I come from, we say "poète rime avec tapette", which means "Poet rhymes with fagit".