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  • FIRST POST
    • worldtraveller
    • By worldtraveller 6th Oct 16, 8:28 AM
    • 10,307Posts
    • 18,538Thanks
    worldtraveller
    National Poetry Day - What's your favourite and/or most memorable poem?
    • #1
    • 6th Oct 16, 8:28 AM
    National Poetry Day - What's your favourite and/or most memorable poem? 6th Oct 16 at 8:28 AM
    Today is National Poetry Day

    Do you have a favourite and/or, maybe, just most memorable poem?

    I'll kick off with the following, which, apart from my signature by Byron, is one of my favourites, which I have never forgotten, being one of several poems that I had to learn off by heart at school (a long time ago! ):

    Rupert Brooke

    The Soldier

    IF I should die, think only this of me:
    That there's some corner of a foreign field
    That is forever England. There shall be
    In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
    A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
    Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
    A body of England's, breathing English air,
    Washed by the rivers, blest by the suns of home.

    And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
    A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
    Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
    Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
    And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
    In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
    Last edited by worldtraveller; 06-10-2016 at 8:36 AM.
    There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more...
Page 3
    • zagubov
    • By zagubov 8th Oct 16, 8:32 PM
    • 13,379 Posts
    • 118,089 Thanks
    zagubov
    I'm fed up with having to make poems the difficult way. You can make great poems really easily as long as you break the stupid rule about not splitting words in the middle.

    What I would not give for twop
    ennysworth of delicious soup.

    or

    I think I will never see
    a creature as stupid as a shee
    p.
    There is no honour to be had in not knowing a thing that can be known - Danny Baker
    • Wizard of Id
    • By Wizard of Id 8th Oct 16, 8:39 PM
    • 525 Posts
    • 2,276 Thanks
    Wizard of Id
    I just don't 'get' poetry, does that make me a bad person?

    I understand that song lyrics can be classed as poetry but to me they mean nothing without the music and the singers performance.

    I did once win a prize for reciting a Burns poem but I had no idea what it was about, I didn't understand it in any way and all I really did was commit it to memory and recite it in my own voice. (I was 11)
    Every man is innocent until proven broke.


    Walk 1000 miles in a year challenge - 650.2
    This week - 33.3
    • Pyxis
    • By Pyxis 9th Oct 16, 7:15 AM
    • 21,382 Posts
    • 74,950 Thanks
    Pyxis
    I'm fed up with having to make poems the difficult way. You can make great poems really easily as long as you break the stupid rule about not splitting words in the middle.

    What I would not give for twop
    ennysworth of delicious soup.

    or

    I think I will never see
    a creature as stupid as a shee
    p.
    Originally posted by zagubov



    You've invented a whole new genre, Zag! Spli Trhymes!

    I like it!
    (I just lurve spiders! )
    INFJ(Turbulent).

    Her Greenliness Baroness Pyxis of the Alphabetty, P.P..
    ¥ ¥ ¥
    X ~O
    • terryw
    • By terryw 9th Oct 16, 7:40 AM
    • 3,824 Posts
    • 5,982 Thanks
    terryw
    What a smashing thread. Thanks OP

    I enjoy anything by Robert W Service.

    The first two verses of

    The Cremation of Sam McGee
    BY ROBERT W. SERVICE
    There are strange things done in the midnight sun
    By the men who moil for gold;
    The Arctic trails have their secret tales
    That would make your blood run cold;
    The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
    But the queerest they ever did see
    Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
    I cremated Sam McGee.

    Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
    Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
    He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
    Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."
    "If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools"
    Extract from "If" by Rudyard Kipling
    • zagubov
    • By zagubov 9th Oct 16, 10:30 AM
    • 13,379 Posts
    • 118,089 Thanks
    zagubov
    Country music songs have lyrics that are pure poetry. You can make such poems using this website here.

    And their titles are pure brilliance in themselves.
    There is no honour to be had in not knowing a thing that can be known - Danny Baker
    • tommix
    • By tommix 9th Oct 16, 11:23 AM
    • 32,911 Posts
    • 135,161 Thanks
    tommix
    Here's a lovely piece of Poetry by Omar Khayyam.

    I'm Omar Khayyam I am
    I eat Yams and Flans and Damson Jam
    I'm Omar Khayyam I am
    I like Trams and Dams and George Michaels Wham.

    • tommix
    • By tommix 9th Oct 16, 11:27 AM
    • 32,911 Posts
    • 135,161 Thanks
    tommix
    Here's another lovely piece of Poetry by Omar Khayyam.

    I'm Omar Khayyam I am
    I eat Yams and Flans in Rotterdam
    I'm Omar Khayyam I am



    Last edited by tommix; 09-10-2016 at 11:33 AM.
    • Pyxis
    • By Pyxis 9th Oct 16, 12:18 PM
    • 21,382 Posts
    • 74,950 Thanks
    Pyxis
    Here's a lovely piece of Poetry by Omar Khayyam.

    I'm Omar Khayyam I am
    I eat Yams and Flans and Damson Jam
    I'm Omar Khayyam I am
    I like Trams and Dams and George Michaels Wham.
    Originally posted by tommix
    As well as lambs and clams and drams and grams of hams and prams and spams,
    But I don't like scams or shams
    (I just lurve spiders! )
    INFJ(Turbulent).

    Her Greenliness Baroness Pyxis of the Alphabetty, P.P..
    ¥ ¥ ¥
    X ~O
    • tommix
    • By tommix 9th Oct 16, 1:28 PM
    • 32,911 Posts
    • 135,161 Thanks
    tommix
    And finally the third piece in the Omar Khayyam Trilogy..

    I'm Omar Khayyam I am
    I eat Lamb and Clam and Spam
    I'm Omar Khayyam I am
    Love me or hate me
    At the end of the day
    I yam what I yam.

    Last edited by tommix; 09-10-2016 at 1:43 PM.
    • Tipsntreats
    • By Tipsntreats 9th Oct 16, 1:56 PM
    • 1,832 Posts
    • 3,163 Thanks
    Tipsntreats
    Here is one for Tommix

    Sleepless night
    A night when you can't sleep,
    Tossing and turning every two three seconds,
    You just lie in the darkness,
    wide awake.
    Check your phone for the time,
    Nothing changed
    Continuing lying in the dark,
    wide awake.
    Another sleepless night.

    Alicia Kamimski
    May 19, 2015
    Money, money, money
    Must be funny
    • Dill
    • By Dill 9th Oct 16, 3:11 PM
    • 1,664 Posts
    • 3,113 Thanks
    Dill
    I just don't 'get' poetry, does that make me a bad person?

    I understand that song lyrics can be classed as poetry but to me they mean nothing without the music and the singers performance.

    I did once win a prize for reciting a Burns poem but I had no idea what it was about, I didn't understand it in any way and all I really did was commit it to memory and recite it in my own voice. (I was 11)
    Originally posted by Wizard of Id

    I've tried so hard to 'get' poetry. I find it much easier if it's song lyrics. Paul Simon wrote some very poetic songs, but for me it needs the music to convey the emotion and not just the words, if that makes sense?
    • Tipsntreats
    • By Tipsntreats 9th Oct 16, 3:46 PM
    • 1,832 Posts
    • 3,163 Thanks
    Tipsntreats
    Dill some poems inspired artists.
    The Lady of Shalott (1832) Related Poem Content Details
    BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
    Part I
    On either side the river lie
    Long fields of barley and of rye,
    That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
    And thro' the field the road runs by
    To many-tower'd Camelot;
    The yellow-leaved waterlily
    The green-sheathed daffodilly
    Tremble in the water chilly
    Round about Shalott.

    Willows whiten, aspens shiver.
    The sunbeam showers break and quiver
    In the stream that runneth ever
    By the island in the river
    Flowing down to Camelot.
    Four gray walls, and four gray towers
    Overlook a space of flowers,
    And the silent isle imbowers
    The Lady of Shalott.

    Underneath the bearded barley,
    The reaper, reaping late and early,
    Hears her ever chanting cheerly,
    Like an angel, singing clearly,
    O'er the stream of Camelot.
    Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,
    Beneath the moon, the reaper weary
    Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,
    Lady of Shalott.'

    The little isle is all inrail'd
    With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd
    With roses: by the marge unhail'd
    The shallop flitteth silken sail'd,
    Skimming down to Camelot.
    A pearl garland winds her head:
    She leaneth on a velvet bed,
    Full royally apparelled,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    Part II
    No time hath she to sport and play:
    A charmed web she weaves alway.
    A curse is on her, if she stay
    Her weaving, either night or day,
    To look down to Camelot.
    She knows not what the curse may be;
    Therefore she weaveth steadily,
    Therefore no other care hath she,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    She lives with little joy or fear.
    Over the water, running near,
    The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.
    Before her hangs a mirror clear,
    Reflecting tower'd Camelot.
    And as the mazy web she whirls,
    She sees the surly village churls,
    And the red cloaks of market girls
    Pass onward from Shalott.

    Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
    An abbot on an ambling pad,
    Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
    Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
    Goes by to tower'd Camelot:
    And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
    The knights come riding two and two:
    She hath no loyal knight and true,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    But in her web she still delights
    To weave the mirror's magic sights,
    For often thro' the silent nights
    A funeral, with plumes and lights
    And music, came from Camelot:
    Or when the moon was overhead
    Came two young lovers lately wed;
    'I am half sick of shadows,' said
    The Lady of Shalott.

    Part III
    A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
    He rode between the barley-sheaves,
    The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
    And flam'd upon the brazen greaves
    Of bold Sir Lancelot.
    A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
    To a lady in his shield,
    That sparkled on the yellow field,
    Beside remote Shalott.

    The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
    Like to some branch of stars we see
    Hung in the golden Galaxy.
    The bridle bells rang merrily
    As he rode down from Camelot:
    And from his blazon'd baldric slung
    A mighty silver bugle hung,
    And as he rode his armour rung,
    Beside remote Shalott.

    All in the blue unclouded weather
    Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
    The helmet and the helmet-feather
    Burn'd like one burning flame together,
    As he rode down from Camelot.
    As often thro' the purple night,
    Below the starry clusters bright,
    Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
    Moves over green Shalott.

    His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
    On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
    From underneath his helmet flow'd
    His coal-black curls as on he rode,
    As he rode down from Camelot.
    From the bank and from the river
    He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
    'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'
    Sang Sir Lancelot.

    She left the web, she left the loom
    She made three paces thro' the room
    She saw the water-flower bloom,
    She saw the helmet and the plume,
    She look'd down to Camelot.
    Out flew the web and floated wide;
    The mirror crack'd from side to side;
    'The curse is come upon me,' cried
    The Lady of Shalott.

    Part IV
    In the stormy east-wind straining,
    The pale yellow woods were waning,
    The broad stream in his banks complaining,
    Heavily the low sky raining
    Over tower'd Camelot;
    Outside the isle a shallow boat
    Beneath a willow lay afloat,
    Below the carven stern she wrote,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight,
    All raimented in snowy white
    That loosely flew (her zone in sight
    Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright)
    Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot,
    Though the squally east-wind keenly
    Blew, with folded arms serenely
    By the water stood the queenly
    Lady of Shalott.

    With a steady stony glance—
    Like some bold seer in a trance,
    Beholding all his own mischance,
    Mute, with a glassy countenance—
    She look'd down to Camelot.
    It was the closing of the day:
    She loos'd the chain, and down she lay;
    The broad stream bore her far away,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    As when to sailors while they roam,
    By creeks and outfalls far from home,
    Rising and dropping with the foam,
    From dying swans wild warblings come,
    Blown shoreward; so to Camelot
    Still as the boathead wound along
    The willowy hills and fields among,
    They heard her chanting her deathsong,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,
    She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
    Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,
    And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,
    Turn'd to tower'd Camelot:
    For ere she reach'd upon the tide
    The first house by the water-side,
    Singing in her song she died,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    Under tower and balcony,
    By garden wall and gallery,
    A pale, pale corpse she floated by,
    Deadcold, between the houses high,
    Dead into tower'd Camelot.
    Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
    To the planked wharfage came:
    Below the stern they read her name,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest,
    Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.
    There lay a parchment on her breast,
    That puzzled more than all the rest,
    The wellfed wits at Camelot.
    'The web was woven curiously,
    The charm is broken utterly,
    Draw near and fear not,—this is I,
    The Lady of Shalott.'
    My favourite artist in next post.
    Money, money, money
    Must be funny
    • Tipsntreats
    • By Tipsntreats 9th Oct 16, 3:47 PM
    • 1,832 Posts
    • 3,163 Thanks
    Tipsntreats
    Money, money, money
    Must be funny
    • Pyxis
    • By Pyxis 9th Oct 16, 6:25 PM
    • 21,382 Posts
    • 74,950 Thanks
    Pyxis
    And finally the third piece in the Omar Khayyam Trilogy..

    I'm Omar Khayyam I am
    I eat Lamb and Clam and Spam
    I'm Omar Khayyam I am
    Love me or hate me
    At the end of the day
    I yam what I yam
    Originally posted by tommix
    And that's all that you yam,
    You're Tommix the tale-er man!
    Whoo-whoo!
    (I just lurve spiders! )
    INFJ(Turbulent).

    Her Greenliness Baroness Pyxis of the Alphabetty, P.P..
    ¥ ¥ ¥
    X ~O
    • charlies-aunt
    • By charlies-aunt 9th Oct 16, 10:24 PM
    • 1,537 Posts
    • 13,067 Thanks
    charlies-aunt
    "I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty;
    I woke, and found that life was duty.
    The best things in life aren't things
    C.R.A.P.R.O.L.L.Z. Member #58 Duct-tape queen
    2016 is my year of personal change - 4st to lose! now 2st 1lb down with 1st 13lb to go
    Be a diamond in a rhinestone world


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