Poetry!

[SpitfireKing]

I must admit, I love poetry, I also love my girlfriend to, and she likes my poetry, etc. But yes! Like I was saying I'm a fairly good poet and singer, they both tie together. I'm guessing some other people write on here, how long, and such. Me almost 4 years. More later.

 

[Matt308]

SK, I have to admit that when someone says poetry, my shields go up. The Nations Poet Laureatte puts "exceptional" poetry in the local newspaper to highlight the best of the best. And for the most part it is tripe. It seems that much of it is in the new freestyle format (for lack of a better term) that reminds me of mindless drivel with no rhyme nor reason.

I would love to be educated on how to appreciate good poetry, but am skeptical from the start. Bad attitude I guess.

 

[Matt308]

This isn't one of the Laureatte's, but what about this one of mine...

When Ryan was a teenager,
he was the best man at Oscar's wedding.
Next summer, Oscar will be best man
when Ryan gets married.
He's like a big brother
to my three little kids.

Because his experience was so positive,
Oscar now sits on the board.
But the girls who do have mentors
learn a different perspective.

 

[lesofprimus]

I think my balls just went back up inside...

 

[Matt308]

You no like, Mr. Les? I suggest you shave your back and get a pedicure.

 

[pbfoot]

I prefer the high art of limericks
The limerick's callous and crude,
Its morals distressingly lewd;
It's not worth the reading
By persons of breeding -
It's designed for us vulgar and rude.

 

[Matt308]

No class...

 

[Matt308]

 

[k9kiwi]

There was a young girl from Regina,
On a long slow boat to China.
She was trapped at the tiller,
By a sex crazed gorilla.
And its a bloody long way to China.

Harry Secombe.
The Goon Show.

 

[lesofprimus]

lol funny k9....

Matt, for ur information, my back is hairless, and the day someone does anything to my toes, they'll be ice skating in hell...

 

[Matt308]

Les, okay I'll let it out of the bag. Da****!

Go read them again. I picked those three sentences randomly from a single article out of today's paper, Seattle Times, Jan 24, Big Brothers. I was hoping that Spitfire would comment on the brilliance of the meter. The emotion of the symantics. The evocation of the ironic contrasts contained in the stanzas.

But NNoooooooooooooo. You dolts had to ruin my Grand Plan. Skew my ability to ambush a poor leftist poetry lover. Ruin my plans to grind his poetry soaked bones into grist for my conservative "get a job" mill.

Now my evening is ruined. And I must retire to a cold beer and soak my solace in drunken debauchery. Forever, I will hold you accountable. Et tu, Brute'?

 

[k9kiwi]

So instead of a form of Haiku, you made more of an Achoo.

 

[Matt308]

Yeah...well.

LES RUINS EVERYTHING!!!!

 

[SpitfireKing]

lol funny k9....

Matt, for ur information, my back is hairless, and the day someone does anything to my toes, they'll be ice skating in hell...

Ha ha.

To her: Angel of Mercy
Though a deathly cold surrounded me,
Heaves warm lust consumed,
Years of suffering now did end,
For the angel of mercy is in my bed.

Heres one I wrote a bit ago.

 

[SpitfireKing]

Les, okay I'll let it out of the bag. Da****!

Go read them again. I picked those three sentences randomly from a single article out of today's paper, Seattle Times, Jan 24, Big Brothers. I was hoping that Spitfire would comment on the brilliance of the meter. The emotion of the symantics. The evocation of the ironic contrasts contained in the stanzas.

But NNoooooooooooooo. You dolts had to ruin my Grand Plan. Skew my ability to ambush a poor leftist poetry lover. Ruin my plans to grind his poetry soaked bones into grist for my conservative "get a job" mill.

Now my evening is ruined. And I must retire to a cold beer and soak my solace in drunken debauchery. Forever, I will hold you accountable. Et tu, Brute'?

So that was your plan ay? Oh well, it sucked anyway.

 

[Matt308]

Give me a break. You woulda liked it.

 

[SpitfireKing]

Like mustard on eggs, like mustard on eggs.

 

[Matt308]

 

[ndicki]

Matt, don't knock poetry too fast, some of it is excellent. Try this, by Wilfred Owen, M.C., written in 1917:

Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, —
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

 

[Matt308]

Haunting. But for every 100,00 persons who fancies themselves a poet, you MIGHT find one with something other than ability to write solopsist rantings.