luka

Well-known member
It's enjoyable to read but has nothing to do with poetry at all.

When day was gone,
95
And from their occupations out of doors
The Son and Father were come home, even then,
Their labour did not cease; unless when all
Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there,
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,
100
Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes,
And their plain home-made cheese. 😂😂😂😂😂
 

Corpsey

bandz ahoy
I don't remember the smileys 🤔

Can't poetry tell a story? I've read bits of the Prelude which aren't dissimilar to this, so what makes that poetry?

Is it the lack of metaphorical language? Or lack of overt musicality?

To me reading it, I thought it did resemble a short story or a novel more than the typical lyric poem, but that made me think oh poetry can be something else than what I thought it was, the iambic rhythm and variations add something to this, and the emotion of the story melds (at times) perfectly with the metre, with the stresses

Whereas I guess you think the iambic metre is sort of superficial here?
 

Corpsey

bandz ahoy
I read "Resolution and Independence" last night before bed, which has got a lot of beautifully expressed shit in it

"...--on the moors
The hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run."

"
But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
Of joys in minds that can no further go,
As high as we have mounted in delight
In our dejection do we sink as low;"

Harold Bloom reckons it's the most influential shorter poem WW wrote -- because of the theme of a poet in crisis being rescued by a chance (or Fated) encounter. In R&I it's an elderly ass leech gatherer (the epiphanic old man again), to whom I suppose WW is comparing himself, a solitary, lonely, beaten up wanderer, searching for increasingly rare means of earning his crust.
 

Corpsey

bandz ahoy
Not often do I fly, thank fuck. Alas!
I cannot avoid it, sadly; we have
To go back, see the parents, and get
Real fucked up, etc. We have to fly...
 

sufi

lala
RIP Hadrawi

Society​

Wise council: you're unobtainable!
Blame: you breed without bounds!
Greed: you are unbridled!
Brave horse: you're hamstrung here!
Brute force: you bare your brainless face!
Sea of disorder: your full volume,
your ebb and flow and breadth -
could I scoop you in this cup?
Your vastness and your breakers -
are you emptied with a beaker?
But let me set this beginning aside.

The conch shell hot with bewailing,
its bray causing sudden shock
bringing the people together at once -
who does the fan blast with chaff?
Who has had the fear put into them?
Who is setting the traps in Xargaga,
the hunting pits of the Cannibal Queen?

Here comes Bullaale, threatening death
to provoke Bahdoon, walking slowly
with a branch of dogbane;
the fig tree is laid between them to mark
a peaceful zone - but he dodges by
so there's no escape.
In the open they find each other
and their bows are busy with arrows
aimed at the body's bullseye.
The oryx has to watch them brawl
and where is there any sanctuary,
where is there salvation?

Calamity is capable of wonders:
it blows everything out of proportion:
the man causing it bloats with pride -
and you call this normal?

My people: there is such a thing as society!
To the one who says you have no choice,
reply, 'You have no clue!'
Don't listen to his braying,
don't give him the time of day!

The one who promised you much
and ducked the responsibility you gave him,
turned aside from your goals,
robbed you when you were poor,
belittled your beggarliness;
while you lacked even the basics,
this one, craving all comforts,
sported the thick skin of the lion,
wore hubris like a mane,
jumped up into the sky
boasting about his superiority -
he can't stay up the mountain forever
nor can he delay his death-day:
his fall will break both shinbone and thigh.

Rage at how contrary this has run;
say that it shall be recorded well.
You, the people, chose me:
you made your bed in my soul,
wrapped yourselves in my conviction,
used my heart as your pillow.
It's you who make my lips move:
my fear at your fortunes,
my care at your conditions,
this is what matures me -
when someone defrauds you,
when you cry out for help,
a keen longing awakens my senses
and I begin to recite verse.

You, the people, chose me:
you granted me good fortune,
loaded me with luck:
if my brazenness burns like an iron
you bestowed that charisma on me;
you ordered me: be purposeful,
compelled me to battle for you.
If disasters hadn't befallen you,
your best interests not been betrayed,
if your homeland hadn't burned,
justice not been discarded,
the worth of schooling not belittled
being reduced to slogans,
would I be so at one with you?

If the fattest ram and the young lambs
had not been slaughtered for him,
the one who has devoured your house and home,
if more had not been bestowed on him
while the poor increased in number,
if a scant hundred had not risen to the top;
land which formerly had farms
not been put through hardship,
its crops and vegetation razed;
people who once were prosperous
had watered milk poured out for them
their wealth exchanged for pauper-hood;
if aid's grain had not been bickered over,
nor eaten with water in place of ghee;
if the man brought low with poverty
did not have to say, 'We are content!'
be obliged to lie for his life,
would I be so at one with you?

If shame and wrath were not visited on you
at the breaking of each dawn;
if you were not promised better news
would always be here tomorrow
and your needs were never met today;

if the dance of desire, Baar-caddaa
and its refrain 'Baloolliyo Badowyallay'
was not balm for your soul;
if clannishness had not been brushed down
and trotted out yet again;
if your banding together,
your sharing and solidarity,
had not been bludgeoned apart,
your home not burgled, and the sick
in their beds not loathed
and left to heal themselves
would I be so at one with you?

If the young were not butchered,
the blade not stained with blood;
the one who takes care of you at the end
not breakfast for the vultures;
the brave one who seeks to save you
not dragged down by wild beasts;
if those whose safety should be sanctioned
were not riddled with bullets,
the wolves racing each other to reach them;
if those who should be grieving
were not forced to rejoice -
and this show of joy worn as a charm;
if whoever remained alive had not
fallen under the rule of the gun,
becoming thick-skinned to pain,
would I be so at one with you?

If the land had not been scorched
by neglect and lack of water;
if Benadir, once bountiful, was not
now looked upon with pity;
if at dawn the refugees did not
flee in waves, great numbers
making for the holy sites;
if petrol was not fetishised;
if even the country girls
who used to wear fine poplin
were not abused now in Bahrain;
if the country had not gone
a thousand times begging
to the Arab kings, to the feathered emirs
would I be so at one with you?

If the Eastern bloc had not abandoned us,
the West not lured us to perdition;
had we not become a weeping boil
to our neighbouring nations;
even the fabled white-winged crows
seeking a bolt-hole to avoid
our lost folk, scattered across the globe;
if it was not said to our wounded
and our injured, 'You deserve it!'
would I be so at one with you?



 

woops

is not like other people
RIP Hadrawi

Society​

Wise council: you're unobtainable!
Blame: you breed without bounds!
Greed: you are unbridled!
Brave horse: you're hamstrung here!
Brute force: you bare your brainless face!
Sea of disorder: your full volume,
your ebb and flow and breadth -
could I scoop you in this cup?
Your vastness and your breakers -
are you emptied with a beaker?
But let me set this beginning aside.

The conch shell hot with bewailing,
its bray causing sudden shock
bringing the people together at once -
who does the fan blast with chaff?
Who has had the fear put into them?
Who is setting the traps in Xargaga,
the hunting pits of the Cannibal Queen?

Here comes Bullaale, threatening death
to provoke Bahdoon, walking slowly
with a branch of dogbane;
the fig tree is laid between them to mark
a peaceful zone - but he dodges by
so there's no escape.
In the open they find each other
and their bows are busy with arrows
aimed at the body's bullseye.
The oryx has to watch them brawl
and where is there any sanctuary,
where is there salvation?

Calamity is capable of wonders:
it blows everything out of proportion:
the man causing it bloats with pride -
and you call this normal?

My people: there is such a thing as society!
To the one who says you have no choice,
reply, 'You have no clue!'
Don't listen to his braying,
don't give him the time of day!

The one who promised you much
and ducked the responsibility you gave him,
turned aside from your goals,
robbed you when you were poor,
belittled your beggarliness;
while you lacked even the basics,
this one, craving all comforts,
sported the thick skin of the lion,
wore hubris like a mane,
jumped up into the sky
boasting about his superiority -
he can't stay up the mountain forever
nor can he delay his death-day:
his fall will break both shinbone and thigh.

Rage at how contrary this has run;
say that it shall be recorded well.
You, the people, chose me:
you made your bed in my soul,
wrapped yourselves in my conviction,
used my heart as your pillow.
It's you who make my lips move:
my fear at your fortunes,
my care at your conditions,
this is what matures me -
when someone defrauds you,
when you cry out for help,
a keen longing awakens my senses
and I begin to recite verse.

You, the people, chose me:
you granted me good fortune,
loaded me with luck:
if my brazenness burns like an iron
you bestowed that charisma on me;
you ordered me: be purposeful,
compelled me to battle for you.
If disasters hadn't befallen you,
your best interests not been betrayed,
if your homeland hadn't burned,
justice not been discarded,
the worth of schooling not belittled
being reduced to slogans,
would I be so at one with you?

If the fattest ram and the young lambs
had not been slaughtered for him,
the one who has devoured your house and home,
if more had not been bestowed on him
while the poor increased in number,
if a scant hundred had not risen to the top;
land which formerly had farms
not been put through hardship,
its crops and vegetation razed;
people who once were prosperous
had watered milk poured out for them
their wealth exchanged for pauper-hood;
if aid's grain had not been bickered over,
nor eaten with water in place of ghee;
if the man brought low with poverty
did not have to say, 'We are content!'
be obliged to lie for his life,
would I be so at one with you?

If shame and wrath were not visited on you
at the breaking of each dawn;
if you were not promised better news
would always be here tomorrow
and your needs were never met today;

if the dance of desire, Baar-caddaa
and its refrain 'Baloolliyo Badowyallay'
was not balm for your soul;
if clannishness had not been brushed down
and trotted out yet again;
if your banding together,
your sharing and solidarity,
had not been bludgeoned apart,
your home not burgled, and the sick
in their beds not loathed
and left to heal themselves
would I be so at one with you?

If the young were not butchered,
the blade not stained with blood;
the one who takes care of you at the end
not breakfast for the vultures;
the brave one who seeks to save you
not dragged down by wild beasts;
if those whose safety should be sanctioned
were not riddled with bullets,
the wolves racing each other to reach them;
if those who should be grieving
were not forced to rejoice -
and this show of joy worn as a charm;
if whoever remained alive had not
fallen under the rule of the gun,
becoming thick-skinned to pain,
would I be so at one with you?

If the land had not been scorched
by neglect and lack of water;
if Benadir, once bountiful, was not
now looked upon with pity;
if at dawn the refugees did not
flee in waves, great numbers
making for the holy sites;
if petrol was not fetishised;
if even the country girls
who used to wear fine poplin
were not abused now in Bahrain;
if the country had not gone
a thousand times begging
to the Arab kings, to the feathered emirs
would I be so at one with you?

If the Eastern bloc had not abandoned us,
the West not lured us to perdition;
had we not become a weeping boil
to our neighbouring nations;
even the fabled white-winged crows
seeking a bolt-hole to avoid
our lost folk, scattered across the globe;
if it was not said to our wounded
and our injured, 'You deserve it!'
would I be so at one with you?



seems like a good translation
 

Corpsey

bandz ahoy
I was surprised to see him use the word 'unequivocally' but then I can imagine Alan Shearer deploying that in a post match analysis on MOTD.

Also let's not overlook the fact that what makes him hard as a totem pole is her belief in him. That's quite sweet really – and makes me think Alex Ferguson probably got Giggsy ragingly hard on at least a weekly basis.
 

Corpsey

bandz ahoy
Fergie gives stirring half time team talk, closes up as usual by saying "some cunt strap Giggsy's cock up, else those cunts at the Sun will be all over him again"
 

Leo

Well-known member
@woops and @luka, I saw a guy today who apparently has brought the Poets for Hire franchise to the States. Same set up, rickety little table and old typewriter, slightly different calling card ("Poetry on Call" or something). Was going to ask if he knew about you two but then was horrified he might say yes and want to talk about Dissensus. I hope you at least get a licensing fee.
 

Benny B

Well-known member
I scored a big bag full of poetry books from my favourite 2nd hand bookshop in the world (Bookcase in Carlisle) when I was back in England recently. I got:

Ezra Pound - Collected shorter poems
Ezra Pound - Collected translations
Philip Larkin - Collected poems
Wallace Stevens - Selected poems
Charles Tomlinson - Collected poems
Roy Fisher - Collected Poems (not sure about this, was an impulse buy but I'll give it a go)
TS Eliot - Four Quartets
Rimbaud - Oxford ed. of Collected poems
Hopkins - Selected poems
Keats - Selected poems
Thomas Hardy - Selected Poems

Spent 50 quid but I reckon I did pretty well, chuffed. Already done four quarters and it's AMAZING, and I'm massively impressed with Wallace Stevens - reading his stuff for the first time really feels like finding a missing link between the Romantic stuff I like and modernism, but he has this zen like calm and poise, never vexed or violent. Playful, maybe sometimes a bit silly but not in a way that's annoyed me yet. Currently reading Notes towards a supreme fiction, which is brilliant and seems like a good place to start understanding what he's trying to do. Reckon he's going to be a big one for me.
 

Benny B

Well-known member
Such an amazing bookshop, three floors, it's like an old library you could get lost in for weeks, but I only had an hour to spend there unfortunately, so I just scurried around the poetry shelves and picked out those. Regret not buying the Basil Bunting collected I saw now but hopefully it'll be there next time.
 

Benny B

Well-known member
Tea at the Palaz of Hoon
Wallace Stevens, 1879 - 1955

Not less because in purple I descended
The western day through what you called
The loneliest air, not less was I myself.

What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?
What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?
What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?

Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,
And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.
I was myself the compass of that sea:

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

I like how Harold Bloom recites this poem, the way he emphasises particular words (especially in the questions) has put a whole new spin on it for me, cos I hadn't been reading it like that. I think it actually makes more sense to me now, or at least adds an extra layer of meaning that I couldn't see before.

 
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