Good poetry, for a change!  

redmustang91 57M  
8725 posts
8/11/2005 10:42 am

Last Read:
3/5/2006 9:27 pm

Good poetry, for a change!


Writing memorable poetry is damn difficult as anyone who has tried can attest. Many of the blogs contain efforts which are not great compared to the really good stuff. As a English major in college I read the greats, including Will Shakespeare, my fav rav!

Here is a taste of his sonnets, number 29:

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

And number 30:

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.

Priapeo 46M

8/12/2005 3:34 am

Oh, can I mention one of my favorite sonnets in english here? Same country, same age.

Sir Philip Sidney
Astrophel and Stella
Sonnet XV

You that do search for every purling spring
Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,
And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows
Near thereabouts into your poesy wring;
You that do dictionary's method bring
Into your rhymes, running in rattling rows;
You that poor Petrarch's long-deceas√ęd woes
With new-born sighs and denizened wit do sing;
You take wrong ways, those far-fet helps be such
As do bewray a want of inward touch,
And sure at length stol'n goods do come to light.
But if, both for your love and skill, your name
You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame,
Stella behold, and then begin to endite.

Never argue with an idiot. He brings you down to his level then beats you with experience


redmustang91 57M  
8599 posts
8/12/2005 8:31 am

Another favorite poet is Robert Frost and this deceptively simple seeming poem:

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

1Whose woods these are I think I know.
2His house is in the village though;
3He will not see me stopping here
4To watch his woods fill up with snow.

5My little horse must think it queer
6To stop without a farmhouse near
7Between the woods and frozen lake
8The darkest evening of the year.

9He gives his harness bells a shake
10To ask if there is some mistake.
11The only other sound's the sweep
12Of easy wind and downy flake.

13The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
14But I have promises to keep,
15And miles to go before I sleep,
16And miles to go before I sleep.


redmustang91 57M  
8599 posts
8/12/2005 8:33 am

Another fav is Dylan Thomas and this poem about his fierce father's weakening death and dissolution:

Dylan Thomas’ “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”



Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.



Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.



Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


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