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Do not go gentle into that good night

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vvvvvvvpoem i

Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953

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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This is great poetry, and an example of a villanelle, a very difficult verse form.

 

Only a great post like Dylan Thomas could pull it off without sounding stupid and boring.

 

Aren't most of us crying how bright our frail deeds might be seen?

 

Don't most of us catch and sing  the sun in flight, and learn, too late, we grieved it on its way?

 

I know my words have forked no lightning.

 

Why am I sobbing?

 

Do not go gentle.

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One of my favorites with a little different view:

 

Because I could not stop for Death (479)

Emily Dickinson, 1830 - 1886

Because I could not stop for Death – 
He kindly stopped for me –  
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –  
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility – 

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –  
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –  
We passed the Setting Sun – 

Or rather – He passed us – 
The Dews drew quivering and chill – 
For only Gossamer, my Gown – 
My Tippet – only Tulle – 

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground – 
The Roof was scarcely visible – 
The Cornice – in the Ground – 

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads 
Were toward Eternity 

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Another of my favorites:

 

Some say love, it is a river, that drowns the tender reed
Some say love, it is a razor, that leaves your soul to bleed
Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless aching need
I say love, it is a flower, and you, its only seed
Its the heart afraid of breaking, that never learns to dance
Its the dream afraid of waking, that never takes the chance
Its the one who won't be taking, who cannot seem to give
And the soul afraid of dying, that never learns to live
When the night has been too lonely and the road has been too long
And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter, far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed, that with the sun's love in the spring becomes the rose

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Bring on the poetry

 

I never really got into it but I'm learning to here in Santa Fe

 

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In some versions of the creation myth there was another woman created contemporaneously, or perhaps earlier, than Eve. She and Adam did not get along. 

 

This poem has been called sexist. It is from Adam's viewpoint. He's articulate, but look: he doesn't know the words "cry" or "kiss", and must circumlocute. An intelligent man, but he's emotionally slow.

 

As it sometimes is in real life.

 

Lilith and Eve

 

I had planted some flowers

near the clearing where we slept,

for their fragrance

and because Eve found them beautiful.

To distract her from a sting, once,

I cut some for her, saying,

- for your sake I cut these, that the bees will not return -

Eve then did a pleasant thing,

her mouth warm upon my mouth.

 

Lilith came to ridicule my love of order

as I planted the garden.

- The fruit of which you also eat -

I said. But Lilith kicked the cabbages

and pulled down the vines

and ran away making hurtful noises,

water streaming from her eyes.

I thought to meet this scorn with kindness

and cut some flowers for Lilith.

Was she not also Woman?

Would she not find similar joy?

Lilith threw them down and railed against

the blandness of my logic,

saying she preferred wildflowers

growing where they would,

or any that had not suffered my touch.

I started to turn away.

Lilith roughly grasped me to her

and did the thing that Eve had done,

with her mouth,

but forcefully, not as Eve had done it.

I pulled back when her teeth drew blood from my lips.

I was strangely moved.

But in that rough clasp I knew for the first time:

- I will never understand their truths -

Eve's, or Lilith's, or those of their kind.

 

And then, unknown to Him,

I sinned the first sin,

anterior to that of Eve when she took the sweet fruit.

For I thought

- the Creator's love for them cannot exceed mine -

And the taste of this was as a bitter root.

 

---------------------------

 

What there is to understand from this is from Adam when he quotes himself:

- I will do for you, and I will serve you.

- But appreciate that you benefit from my work.

- I have no clue what you're talking about.

- The Creator, and therefore Creation itself, are flawed.

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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.   
His house is in the village though;   
He will not see me stopping here   
To watch his woods fill up with snow.   
 
My little horse must think it queer   
To stop without a farmhouse near   
Between the woods and frozen lake   
The darkest evening of the year.   
 
He gives his harness bells a shake   
To ask if there is some mistake.   
The only other sound’s the sweep   
Of easy wind and downy flake.   
 
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
But I have promises to keep,   
And miles to go before I sleep,   
And miles to go before I sleep.

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Jabberwocky

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
      And the mome raths outgrabe.
 
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
      The frumious Bandersnatch!”
 
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
      Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
      And stood awhile in thought.
 
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
      The Jabberwock, with eyes aflame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
      And burbled as it came!
 
One, two! One, two! And through and through
      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
      He went galumphing back.
 
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
      Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
      He chortled in his joy.
 
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
      And the mome raths outgrabe.
 

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Ozymandias

by Percy Shelley

 

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: ‘Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.’

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23 minutes ago, bludog said:

 

Ozymandias

by Percy Shelley

 

I've loved that one, since I was ten years old. 

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2 minutes ago, laripu said:

I've loved that one, since I was ten years old. 

 

And in the same vein:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow

 

(from Macbeth, spoken by Macbeth)

 

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing

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46 minutes ago, bludog said:

Jabberwocky

 

There are many translations in many languages of this inspired nonsense. 

http://www76.pair.com/keithlim/jabberwocky/translations/index.html

 

Two examples follow.

 

In French:

Le Jaseroque      by Frank L. Warrin

 

Il brilgue: les tôves lubricilleux
Se gyrent en vrillant dans le guave.
Enmîmés sont les gougebosqueux
Et le mômerade horsgrave.

«Garde-toi du Jaseroque, mon fils!
La gueule qui mord; la griffe qui prend!
Garde-toi de l'oiseau Jube, évite
Le frumieux Band-à-prend!»

Son glaive vorpal en main il va-
T-à la recherche du fauve manscant;
Puis arrivé à l'arbre Té-Té,
Il y reste, réfléchissant.

Pendant qu'il pense, tout uffusé,
Le Jaseroque, à l'oeil flambant,
Vient siblant par le bois tullegeais,
Et burbule en venant.

Un deux, un deux, par le milieu,
Le glaive vorpal fait pat-à-pan!
La bête défaite, avec sa tête,
Il rentre gallomphant.

«As-tu tué le Jaseroque?
Viens à mon coeur, fils rayonnais!
Ô Jour frabbejeais! Calleau! Callai!»
Il cortule dans sa joie.

Il brilgue: les tôves lubricilleux
Se gyrent en vrillant dans le guave.
Enmîmés sont les gougebosqueux
Et le mômerade horsgrave.

 

In German:

Der Jammerwoch  by Robert Scott

 

Es brillig war. Die schlichte Toven
Wirrten und wimmelten in Waben;
Und aller-mümsige Burggoven
Die mohmen Räth' ausgraben.

»Bewahre doch vor Jammerwoch!
Die Zähne knirschen, Krallen kratzen!
Bewahr' vor Jubjub-Vogel, vor
Frumiösen Banderschnatzchen!«

Er griff sein vorpals Schwertchen zu,
Er suchte lang das manchsan' Ding;
Dann, stehend unterm Tumtum Baum,
Er an-zu-denken-fing.

Als stand er tief in Andacht auf,
Des Jammerwochen's Augen-feuer
Durch tulgen Wald mit Wiffek kam
Ein burbelnd Ungeheuer!

Eins, Zwei! Eins, Zwei! Und durch und durch
Sein vorpals Schwert zerschnifer-schnück,
Da blieb es todt! Er, Kopf in Hand,
Geläumfig zog zurück.

»Und schlugst Du ja den Jammerwoch?
Umarme mich, mien Böhm'sches Kind!
O Freuden-Tag! O Halloo-Schlag!«
Er schortelt froh-gesinnt.

Es brillig war. Die schlichte Toven
Wirrten und wimmelten in Waben;
Und aller-mümsige Burggoven
Die mohmen Räth' ausgraben.

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10 minutes ago, laripu said:

There are many translations in many languages of this inspired nonsense.

 

I know it by heart and do a pretty good recital of it too !

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6 minutes ago, bludog said:

I know it by heart and do a pretty good recital of it too !

 

That's a rare talent and ought to be encouraged at neighborhood gatherings and parties.

 

I would, anyway. My wife would roll her eyes and say "What's that good for?" ... and she did a few minutes ago. 😆😆 To both German and English versions. She wouldn't let me get past the first verse. She barely tolerated Ozymandias.

 

She has many virtues. Not among them is the fact that poetry makes her angry. 😁

 

Lucky for me I have a strong sense of self. I know what I'm good for, and know that I'm future insect poop. 🙂

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This poem

 

This - tic tic tic -

Is the rhythm of this poem

and the eyes that read it

- tic tic - this

is your process, desire, and span.

Constraint - tic -

Constraint - tic -

Any departure is possibly permanent.

This is a constraint on your life

and

You'll get the rhythm

I've got the rhythm

You've got the rhythm

in your biological processes.

Constraint - tic -

Constraint - tic -

Constraint, love, honesty, trust

This poem regrets avoiding issues

that could ascribe meaning

to cycles and lust.

These signify nothing

'til internal knowledge

touches your ticker

(and touch it, it must).

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Now I'm totally depressed (popping a Xanax).:(

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1 minute ago, TDS said:

Now I'm totally depressed (popping a Xanax).:(

 

Write it in verse.

You know, it could be worse.

Try to entertain

with words from your brain

There are no facts in Xanax

'cause drugs only numb,

so you won't feel those feelings.

But they also eventually

make a smart person dumb.

Feelings are for feeling.

The trick is in dealing

with them. Don't delay:

Feel them, and tame them,

and in use, make them pay.

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8 minutes ago, laripu said:

This poem

 

All praise to the insects.  I wonder if, poetically speaking, insect poop is the same as "internal knowledge" touching "your ticker".

 

I was tickled by how Jabberwocky sounds in German ...   Being able to translate it even though I don't speak German.

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1 minute ago, laripu said:

 

Write it in verse.

You know, it could be worse.

Try to entertain

with words from your brain

There are no facts in Xanax

'cause drugs only numb,

so you won't feel those feelings.

But they also eventually

make a smart person dumb.

Feelings are for feeling.

The trick is in dealing

with them. Don't delay:

Feel them, and tame them,

and in use, make them pay.

 

Sorry, but they work fine for me. :rolleyes:

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11 minutes ago, TDS said:

Now I'm totally depressed (popping a Xanax).:(

 

Quick, take a dexedrine to neutralize it😀

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:blink:

2 minutes ago, bludog said:

 

Quick, take a dexedrine to neutralize it😀

 

Speed kills. 

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1 minute ago, bludog said:

I wonder if, poetically speaking, insect poop is the same as "internal knowledge" touching "your ticker".

 

Yes, that's it.  In my mind, knowing I'm future insect poop is the internal knowledge that touches my ticker. I wrote that in 1982 or 83, while listening to the Talking Heads. That's why it's so rhythmic and about rhythmns.

 

4 minutes ago, bludog said:

I was tickled by how Jabberwocky sounds in German ...   Being able to translate it even though I don't speak German.

 

In the book "Gödel, Escher, Bach", the author gives that as an example of what computers will need to be able to do before we call them aware.

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The Tyger

by William Blake

 

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

 

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

 

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

 

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

 

When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

 

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

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Just now, TDS said:

Speed kills. 

 

Drugs, like religions, are mostly used to stop feeling existential angst, to suppress our fear of life and it's inevitable outcome.

 

Facing those feelings can be made to work for us. It can increase our empathy for the suffering of others, in understanding our own minimal suffering.

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4 minutes ago, bludog said:

The Tyger

by William Blake

 

Pus is us

 

Blake's tiger is the topic,

and fearsome though it is,

can be humbled unto death

by enemies microscopic.

 

So: We are pus. Pus is us.

It's part of what we do.

We make this stinky goo

when threatened with bacterial infection.

You might call out to a deity,

but as for me,

I acknowledge natural protection.

In truth, so do you.

Every lifeform feeds on life

and every life will end soon.

And one day what is left of us

will not be deemed superfluous.

Life will ever nourish life,

eternally consumed.

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