number. not a free man
Prowler
Blake's note an a pencil drawing of nine grotesque hands :
"All Genius varies Thus. Devils are various. Angels are all alike"
"All Genius varies Thus. Devils are various. Angels are all alike"
ABandOn
.:The Final Frontier:.
Another one of Blake:
The Two Songs
I heard an angel singing
When the day was springing:
"Mercy, pity, and peace,
Are the world's release."
So he sang all day
Over the new-mown hay,
Till the sun went down,
And the haycocks looked brown.
I heard a devil curse
Over the heath and the furse:
"Mercy vould be no more
If there were nobody poor,
And pity no more could be
If all were happy as ye:
And mutual fear brings peace,
Misery's increase
Are mercy, pity, and peace."
At his curse the sun went down,
And the heavens gave a frown.
The Two Songs
I heard an angel singing
When the day was springing:
"Mercy, pity, and peace,
Are the world's release."
So he sang all day
Over the new-mown hay,
Till the sun went down,
And the haycocks looked brown.
I heard a devil curse
Over the heath and the furse:
"Mercy vould be no more
If there were nobody poor,
And pity no more could be
If all were happy as ye:
And mutual fear brings peace,
Misery's increase
Are mercy, pity, and peace."
At his curse the sun went down,
And the heavens gave a frown.
____no5
Free Man
I'm obliged to post this in French, sorry but I can't in English
que tu sois un citronier au champs de blé *
et moi la neige mon ange
je me déglace et fais arroser
tes tendres et belles branches
Les champs de blé : Le Petit Prince, XXI
"...tu vois là-bas les champs de blé ? les champs de blé ne me reppellent rien. Et ça c'est triste. Mais tu as des cheveaux couleur d'or. Alors ce sera merveilleux quand tu m'auras apprivoisé. Le blé qui est doré me fera souvenir de toi. Et j'aimerai le bruit du vent dans le blé..."
que tu sois un citronier au champs de blé *
et moi la neige mon ange
je me déglace et fais arroser
tes tendres et belles branches
Les champs de blé : Le Petit Prince, XXI
"...tu vois là-bas les champs de blé ? les champs de blé ne me reppellent rien. Et ça c'est triste. Mais tu as des cheveaux couleur d'or. Alors ce sera merveilleux quand tu m'auras apprivoisé. Le blé qui est doré me fera souvenir de toi. Et j'aimerai le bruit du vent dans le blé..."
A
Anonymous
Guest
____no5 said:
Sounds like my poem
Seriously, though, I know that one. At least I know I've read it.
number. not a free man
Prowler
Blake's spare verses
67
If you play a Game of Chance, know, before you begin,
If you are benevolent you will never win
85
to God
If you have form'd a Circle to go into,
Go into it yourself & see how you would do
82
23 May, 1810, found the Word Golden
33
To forgive Enemies H does pretend,
Who never in his Life forgave a friend
39
To H
Thy Friendship oft has made my heart to ake :
Do be my enemy for Friendship's sake
67
If you play a Game of Chance, know, before you begin,
If you are benevolent you will never win
85
to God
If you have form'd a Circle to go into,
Go into it yourself & see how you would do
82
23 May, 1810, found the Word Golden
33
To forgive Enemies H does pretend,
Who never in his Life forgave a friend
39
To H
Thy Friendship oft has made my heart to ake :
Do be my enemy for Friendship's sake
syl
Ancient Mariner
Back with some very classical poem : The Daffodils by William Wordsworth (1770-1850).
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
I learnt it at school when I was 13 and I still remember every word of it.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
I learnt it at school when I was 13 and I still remember every word of it.
____no5
Free Man
@Albie
Charles Baudelaire -Satan's Litanies
Aptest angel and the lovliest!
a God betrayed, to whom no anthems rise,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Prince of exiles, exiled Prince who, wronged,
yet rises ever stronger from defeat,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Omniscient ruler of the hidden realm,
patient healer of all human pain,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Who even to lepers and such outcast scum
by love inculcates all we know of bliss,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Who gave to Death, your oldest paramour,
a child both lunatic and lovely—Hope!
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Who grants the criminal’s last look of pride
that damns the crowd beneath the guillotine,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Who knows each cranny in the grudging earth
where gems are hidden by a jealous God,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Whose eye can pierce the deepest arsenal
where buried metals slumber in the dark,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Within whose mighty arm the sleepwalker
avoids the rooftop’s yawning precipice,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Who magically rescues the old bones
of drunkards trampled by the horses’ hooves,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Who to console our sufferings has taught
how readily shot and powder may be mixed,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Who sets your sign, in sly complicity,
upon the rich man’s unrelenting brow,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Who lights in women’s greedy hearts and eyes
worship of wounds, rapacity for rags,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
The outlaw’s staff and the inventor’s lamp,
confessor to the traitor, hanged man’s priest,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Adoptive father to those an angry God
the Father drove from His earthly paradise,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
PRAYER
Satan be praised! Glory to you on High
where once you reigned in Heaven, and in the
Pit where now you dream in taciturn defeat!
Grant that my soul, one day, beneath the Tree
of Knowledge, meet you when above your brow
its branches, like a second Temple, spread!
Charles Baudelaire -Satan's Litanies
Aptest angel and the lovliest!
a God betrayed, to whom no anthems rise,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Prince of exiles, exiled Prince who, wronged,
yet rises ever stronger from defeat,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Omniscient ruler of the hidden realm,
patient healer of all human pain,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Who even to lepers and such outcast scum
by love inculcates all we know of bliss,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Who gave to Death, your oldest paramour,
a child both lunatic and lovely—Hope!
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Who grants the criminal’s last look of pride
that damns the crowd beneath the guillotine,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Who knows each cranny in the grudging earth
where gems are hidden by a jealous God,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Whose eye can pierce the deepest arsenal
where buried metals slumber in the dark,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Within whose mighty arm the sleepwalker
avoids the rooftop’s yawning precipice,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Who magically rescues the old bones
of drunkards trampled by the horses’ hooves,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Who to console our sufferings has taught
how readily shot and powder may be mixed,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Who sets your sign, in sly complicity,
upon the rich man’s unrelenting brow,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Who lights in women’s greedy hearts and eyes
worship of wounds, rapacity for rags,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
The outlaw’s staff and the inventor’s lamp,
confessor to the traitor, hanged man’s priest,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
Adoptive father to those an angry God
the Father drove from His earthly paradise,
Oh Satan, take pity on my sore distress!
PRAYER
Satan be praised! Glory to you on High
where once you reigned in Heaven, and in the
Pit where now you dream in taciturn defeat!
Grant that my soul, one day, beneath the Tree
of Knowledge, meet you when above your brow
its branches, like a second Temple, spread!
____no5
Free Man
Baudelaire is French, "the father of all poets, a true god" as Rimbaud* once said
so the above poem is written in French, with original title "Les litanies de Satan"
he marked the post romantic era in poetry....
he is also the man that discouvered Edgar Allan Poe
and brought his works to us the mortals
(*) Rimbaud : he finished his poetic work at the age of 19 (!!!)
and until he died ~37 he never wrote again
He is the reason for whom Jim Morrison went in Paris
so the above poem is written in French, with original title "Les litanies de Satan"
he marked the post romantic era in poetry....
he is also the man that discouvered Edgar Allan Poe
and brought his works to us the mortals
(*) Rimbaud : he finished his poetic work at the age of 19 (!!!)
and until he died ~37 he never wrote again
He is the reason for whom Jim Morrison went in Paris
Albie
Keeping an open eye on the Weeping Angels.
Reading up on Chalky (a Jack Russell owned by English TV Chef Rick Stein) and in his obituary, Rick Stein quoted from a Kipling poem - The Power of the Dog.
THERE is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Full poem here.
Rick Stein article here.
THERE is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Full poem here.
Rick Stein article here.
____no5
Free Man
here a Boris Vian poem translated -quickly- from French by me
Good morning, dog
I see a dog in the street
and I say to him: "what's up, dog ?"
do you believe he'd answered to me ? You don't ?
well, he respondes to me however
but this doesn't concern you
so, when we see people
who walk without even take a glimpse to the dogs
we are shamed for their parents
and the parents of their parents
because one bad education like this
it needs at least .... and I do not overcharge here
three generations, like a siphylis hereditary
but I will say here for not to hurt somebody
that most of the dogs they don't speak so often
Bonjour, chien
J'avise un chien dans la rue
Je lui dis: comment vas-tu, chien ?
Croyez-vous qu'il me répondrait ? Non ?
Eh bien il me répond quand même
Et ça ne vous regarde pas
Alors quand on voit des gens
Qui passent sans même remarquer les chiens
On a honte pour leurs parents
Et pour les parents de leurs parents
Parce qu'une si mauvaise éducation
Ca demande au moins...et je ne suis pas généreux
Trois générations, avec une syphilis héréditaire
Mais j'ajoute pour ne vexer personne
Que bon nombre de chiens ne parlent pas souvent.
Good morning, dog
I see a dog in the street
and I say to him: "what's up, dog ?"
do you believe he'd answered to me ? You don't ?
well, he respondes to me however
but this doesn't concern you
so, when we see people
who walk without even take a glimpse to the dogs
we are shamed for their parents
and the parents of their parents
because one bad education like this
it needs at least .... and I do not overcharge here
three generations, like a siphylis hereditary
but I will say here for not to hurt somebody
that most of the dogs they don't speak so often
Bonjour, chien
J'avise un chien dans la rue
Je lui dis: comment vas-tu, chien ?
Croyez-vous qu'il me répondrait ? Non ?
Eh bien il me répond quand même
Et ça ne vous regarde pas
Alors quand on voit des gens
Qui passent sans même remarquer les chiens
On a honte pour leurs parents
Et pour les parents de leurs parents
Parce qu'une si mauvaise éducation
Ca demande au moins...et je ne suis pas généreux
Trois générations, avec une syphilis héréditaire
Mais j'ajoute pour ne vexer personne
Que bon nombre de chiens ne parlent pas souvent.
Ode on Melancholy
NO, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries, 5
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 10
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, 15
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globèd peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. 20
She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight 25
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 30
This is a famous poem by John Keats which we read in Ebglish class the other day. I was moved by it esoecially since I was a little melancholy on the day we read it. What struck me was the second stanza where the reader is given some (at least in my opinion) very good advice. Keats beautiful image of melancholy (the weeping cloud that settles on the green hill) is especially effective because it is not only an image of melancholy but also one of hope. Consider that it settles over a green hill, and that it is like an April shroud, and we all know how the weather in April is, it will be sunny in only a few moments. Another image in the same stanza which moved me was:
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes
The mistress can be taken as any lover, but also as Melancholy herself. I don´t know if doing this when your lover is raving would calm them down or exasperate them further, but it seems a touching gesture of true love to show tenderness even when that lover is angry with you or with something else. The next image which I like very much in this poem is this one:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight 25
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
It may be a very Romantic notion, but what it is saying is that he who experiences great joy will also experience great melancholy, thereby implying that he who experiences great melancholy is capable of experiencing great joy. Hopeful isn´t it? Anyway, on a finishing note, I liked this poem also because it has a fresh (to me) take on melancholy. Nowhere does it say 'fight melancholy', but instead it tells you to appreciate it. After all it is an emotion just like all those others, and if you are never sad, how can you ever be happy? This is why I'm not fond of all these psychologists that try to cure you of depression. By 'curing' you of melancholy, they take away your ability to be truly happy, thus creating a small range of emotion and in a way a state of emotional vacuum, which is what I think modern society suffers from. Enough of this. Read and enjoy the genius that is Keats.
A
Anonymous
Guest
Natalie said:
I basically agree with you there, and I've observed cases in which treated depression only led to general apathy. However, we have to differ between depression as a mood and depression as a disease. As a mood, it does not need any sort of treatment, even if it persists for a long time. However, as a disease it does need treatment, because it can become life-threatening. I will agree, however, that it is sometimes hard to draw the line between the mood and the disease. Many people who have been merely in a mood of depression mistook it for a disease, and vice versa. The main problem is that this is such a touchy subject that we tend to do either too much or too little to solve the problems.
"Holy crap you poetry people are depressing." I'd thank you not to make judgments about people based on one or two poems posted here. And if your comment stems from the Keats poem above I'd invite you to read it again more carefully. While its subject may be melancholy, I do not think it is melancholic itself.
Anyway, time for another Keats poem.
625. Ode on a Grecian Urn
THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 5
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 10
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 15
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 20
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love! 25
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore, 35
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 40
O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 45
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.' 50
"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard/ Are sweeter"... do you agree?
and
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.' ...What do you make of these lines?
P.S. I would post a longer review but I pressed some wrong key and the whole thing deleted itself and I'm too lazy to rewrite practically an essay's worth of writing. Cheers.
Anyway, time for another Keats poem.
625. Ode on a Grecian Urn
THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 5
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 10
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 15
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 20
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love! 25
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore, 35
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 40
O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 45
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.' 50
"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard/ Are sweeter"... do you agree?
and
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.' ...What do you make of these lines?
P.S. I would post a longer review but I pressed some wrong key and the whole thing deleted itself and I'm too lazy to rewrite practically an essay's worth of writing. Cheers.
____no5
Free Man
THE RAVEN - EDGAR ALAN POE
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door --
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had tried to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore --
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore --
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door --
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; --
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you " -- here I opened wide the door; ----
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" --
Merely this, and nothing more.
Then into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore --
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door --
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door --
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore --
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no sublunary being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door --
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered --
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before --
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
Wondering at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster so when Hope he would adjure --
Stern Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he dared adjure --
That sad answer, "Never -- nevermore."
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite -- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Let me quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! --
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted --
On this home by Horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore --
Is there -- is there balm in Gilead? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil -- prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore --
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore --
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting --
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted -- nevermore!
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door --
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had tried to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore --
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore --
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door --
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; --
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you " -- here I opened wide the door; ----
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" --
Merely this, and nothing more.
Then into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore --
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door --
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door --
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore --
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no sublunary being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door --
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered --
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before --
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
Wondering at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster so when Hope he would adjure --
Stern Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he dared adjure --
That sad answer, "Never -- nevermore."
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite -- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Let me quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! --
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted --
On this home by Horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore --
Is there -- is there balm in Gilead? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil -- prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore --
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore --
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting --
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted -- nevermore!
Shrike
Trooper
I came in here knowing that Blake was a lost cause, so I figured I'd post The Raven. Guess not
So how about some dub-poetry? Here's Linton Kwesi Johnson's Five Nights Of Bleeding.
Madness, madness
Madness tight on the heads of the rebels
The bitterness erup's like a heart blas'
Broke glass, ritual of blood an' a-burnin'
Served by a cruelin' fighting
5 nights of horror and of bleeding
Broke glass, cold blades as sharp as the eyes of hate
And the stabbin', it's
War amongs' the rebels
Madness, madness, war
Night number one was in Brixton
Sofrano B sound system
'im was a-beatin' up the riddim with a fire
'im comin' down his reggae reggae wire
It was a sound checkin' down your spinal column
A bad music tearin' up your flesh
An' the rebels dem start a fighting
De youth dem just tun wild, it's
War amongs' the rebels
Madness, madness, war
Night number two down at Sheppard's
Right up Railton road
It was a night name friday when ev'ryone was high on brew or drew
A pound or two worth of Kali
Sound comin' down of the king's music iron
The riddim just bubblin' an' backfirin'
Ragin' an' risin'
When suddenly the music cut -
Steelblade drinkin' blood in darkness, it's
War amongs' the rebels
Madness, madness, war
Night number three, over the river
Right outside the Rainbow
Inside James Brown was screamin soul
Outside the rebels were freezin' cold
Babylonian tyrants descended
Bounced on the brothers who were bold
So with a flick of the wris', a jab and a stab
The song of hate was sounded
The pile of oppression was vomited
And two policemen wounded
Righteous, righteous war
Night number four at the blues dance, abuse dance
Two rooms packed and the pressure pushin' up
Hot, hotheads
Ritual of blood in the blues dance
Broke glass splintering, fire
Axes, blades, brain blas'
Rebellion rushin' down the wrong road
Storm blowin' down the wrong tree
And Leroy bleeds near death on the fourth night
In a blues dance, on a black rebellious night, it's
War amongs' the rebels
Madness, madness, war
Night number five at the telegraph
Vengeance walk thru de doors
So slow, so smooth
So tight and ripe and -smash!
Broke glass, a bottle finds a head
And the shell of the fire heard -crack!
The victim feels fear
Finds hands, holds knife, finds throat
Oh, the stabbins and the bleedin' and the blood, it's
War amongs' the rebels
Madness, madness, war"
So how about some dub-poetry? Here's Linton Kwesi Johnson's Five Nights Of Bleeding.
Madness, madness
Madness tight on the heads of the rebels
The bitterness erup's like a heart blas'
Broke glass, ritual of blood an' a-burnin'
Served by a cruelin' fighting
5 nights of horror and of bleeding
Broke glass, cold blades as sharp as the eyes of hate
And the stabbin', it's
War amongs' the rebels
Madness, madness, war
Night number one was in Brixton
Sofrano B sound system
'im was a-beatin' up the riddim with a fire
'im comin' down his reggae reggae wire
It was a sound checkin' down your spinal column
A bad music tearin' up your flesh
An' the rebels dem start a fighting
De youth dem just tun wild, it's
War amongs' the rebels
Madness, madness, war
Night number two down at Sheppard's
Right up Railton road
It was a night name friday when ev'ryone was high on brew or drew
A pound or two worth of Kali
Sound comin' down of the king's music iron
The riddim just bubblin' an' backfirin'
Ragin' an' risin'
When suddenly the music cut -
Steelblade drinkin' blood in darkness, it's
War amongs' the rebels
Madness, madness, war
Night number three, over the river
Right outside the Rainbow
Inside James Brown was screamin soul
Outside the rebels were freezin' cold
Babylonian tyrants descended
Bounced on the brothers who were bold
So with a flick of the wris', a jab and a stab
The song of hate was sounded
The pile of oppression was vomited
And two policemen wounded
Righteous, righteous war
Night number four at the blues dance, abuse dance
Two rooms packed and the pressure pushin' up
Hot, hotheads
Ritual of blood in the blues dance
Broke glass splintering, fire
Axes, blades, brain blas'
Rebellion rushin' down the wrong road
Storm blowin' down the wrong tree
And Leroy bleeds near death on the fourth night
In a blues dance, on a black rebellious night, it's
War amongs' the rebels
Madness, madness, war
Night number five at the telegraph
Vengeance walk thru de doors
So slow, so smooth
So tight and ripe and -smash!
Broke glass, a bottle finds a head
And the shell of the fire heard -crack!
The victim feels fear
Finds hands, holds knife, finds throat
Oh, the stabbins and the bleedin' and the blood, it's
War amongs' the rebels
Madness, madness, war"
syl
Ancient Mariner
After reading one of the post of Char_da_harlot in "the greatest bands that never existed", I remember that I had somewhere the poem that Jim Morrison wrote for Brian jones and that I liked it much.
Ode to L.A. while thinking of Brian Jones, deceased
I'm a resident of a city
They've just picked me to play
the Prince of Denmark
Poor Ophelia
All those ghosts he never saw
Floating to doom
On an iron candle
Come back, brave warrior
Do the dive
On another channel
Hot buttered pool
Where's Marrakesh
Under the falls
the wild storm
where savages fell out
in late afternoon
monsters of rhythm
You've left your
Nothing
to compete w/
Silence
I hope you went out
Smiling
Like a child
Into the cool remnant
of a dream
The angel man
w/Serpents competing
for his palms
& fingers
Finally claimed
This benevolent
Soul
Ophelia
Leaves, sodden
in silk
Chlorine
dream
mad stifled
Witness
The diving board, the plunge
The pool
You were a fighter
a damask musky muse
You were the bleached
Sun
for TV afternoon
horned-toads
maverick of a yellow spot
Look now to where it's got
You
in meat heaven
w/the cannibals
& jews
The gardener
Found
The body, rampant, Floating
Lucky Stiff
What is this green pale stuff
You're made of
Poke holes in the goddess
Skin
Will he Stink
Carried heavenward
Thru the halls
of music
No chance.
Requiem for a heavy
That smile
That porky satyr's
leer
has leaped upward
into the loam
Ode to L.A. while thinking of Brian Jones, deceased
I'm a resident of a city
They've just picked me to play
the Prince of Denmark
Poor Ophelia
All those ghosts he never saw
Floating to doom
On an iron candle
Come back, brave warrior
Do the dive
On another channel
Hot buttered pool
Where's Marrakesh
Under the falls
the wild storm
where savages fell out
in late afternoon
monsters of rhythm
You've left your
Nothing
to compete w/
Silence
I hope you went out
Smiling
Like a child
Into the cool remnant
of a dream
The angel man
w/Serpents competing
for his palms
& fingers
Finally claimed
This benevolent
Soul
Ophelia
Leaves, sodden
in silk
Chlorine
dream
mad stifled
Witness
The diving board, the plunge
The pool
You were a fighter
a damask musky muse
You were the bleached
Sun
for TV afternoon
horned-toads
maverick of a yellow spot
Look now to where it's got
You
in meat heaven
w/the cannibals
& jews
The gardener
Found
The body, rampant, Floating
Lucky Stiff
What is this green pale stuff
You're made of
Poke holes in the goddess
Skin
Will he Stink
Carried heavenward
Thru the halls
of music
No chance.
Requiem for a heavy
That smile
That porky satyr's
leer
has leaped upward
into the loam