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Post by Forever Sunshine on Aug 2, 2011 12:14:02 GMT -5
FS, when do I get 4 stars? Keep posting and you'll get them. ;D
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Post by Forever Sunshine on Aug 2, 2011 12:14:53 GMT -5
My apologies then. I don't think anyone but the trolls want to be a part of MSN now. No problem. we are good. Well, then I guess the trolls got what they wished for.. but now who will troll the trolls? LOL Each other! How appropriate is that LOL
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Post by Forever Sunshine on Aug 2, 2011 12:16:13 GMT -5
There is nothing I'd like more than to go back to my little hideaway on the MSNBC Wonderful World board... Awww, *hug*.
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Post by txnannarose51 on Aug 2, 2011 12:16:47 GMT -5
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 2, 2011 13:28:26 GMT -5
Thanks, I'll do just that. I like to meet new folks ( and lure them into my net, heh, heh, heh)
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Post by Forever Sunshine on Aug 2, 2011 13:37:05 GMT -5
Thanks, I'll do just that. I like to meet new folks ( and lure them into my net, heh, heh, heh)
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Post by txnannarose51 on Aug 2, 2011 13:43:47 GMT -5
Thanks, I'll do just that. I like to meet new folks ( and lure them into my net, heh, heh, heh) LOLOLOLOL
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Post by marcolucco on Aug 2, 2011 18:15:27 GMT -5
Greetings, Pegasus, I too like good poetry. And yes, your selections are enjoyable. I like a hint of hurt, of nostalgia, as in Housman's
Into my heart an air that kills From yon far country blows. What are those blue, remembered hills, What spires, what farms are those? That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain. The happy highways where we went And cannot come again.
Carl Sandman's famous Grass you will know:
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo, Shovel them under and let me work - I am the grass. I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg, And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work. Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor: What place is this? Where are we now? I am the grass. Let me work.
Few read Tennyson's gigantic In Memoriam these days, but there are lovely stanzas in it:
I hold it true, whate'er befall, I feel it, when I sorrow most, 'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.
And since I'm a Scot, can I forget Burns in Tam o' Shanter?
But pleasures are like poppies spread- You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river - A moment white then melts for ever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point the place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm, No man can tether time or tide, The hour approaches. Tam must ride.
I had some Sapphic stanzas printed in the Formalist, and for many years I used to win prizes in the enjoyable Formallist and Narrative Poetry Competition run by Alfred Dorn.
Best wishes
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Post by marcolucco on Aug 2, 2011 18:19:56 GMT -5
I pondered for an answer I was looking for a clue. Then I turned around and smacked him one
Like his mother used to do.
This made me smile, jack - very good.
[/quote]
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 2, 2011 22:38:06 GMT -5
I am so glad that you enjoy my thread. I have been posting poems on the MSN boards, beginning with MSNBC since 2006. Most of the time I've felt like I was the only one who noticed. I try not to post poems that are too long because one of the reasons I do it is to introduce people to poetry. BTW My favorite poet is Emily Dickinson. I posted this a week ago. I think it's my favorite Dickinson poem. "Because I could not stop for Death" (#712) by Emily Dickinson
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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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 2, 2011 22:47:29 GMT -5
marco, you mentioned Tennyson. As I grow ever older his "Crossing the Bar" becomes ever more meaningful.
Sunset and evening star And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark;
For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar.
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 2, 2011 22:49:37 GMT -5
As for Robert Frost, I like "Mending Wall"
Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun, And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: 'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!' We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'. Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: 'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me~ Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 2, 2011 22:55:27 GMT -5
As for Robbie Burns...John Anderson My Jo is only one of many.
When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, 5 Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo! John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; 10 And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, 15 John Anderson, my jo
"To a Mouse" Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty Wi bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murdering pattle.
I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth born companion An' fellow mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss't.
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's win's ensuin, Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld.
But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy!
Still thou are blest, compared wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear!
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Post by marcolucco on Aug 3, 2011 3:32:29 GMT -5
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
Yes, I know all these fine poems, Peg. Tennyson is my favourite poet: his Morte d'Arthur is filled with psychological insights, expressed in other-worldly iambic pentameters. Bedivere is everyone's loneliness when he says:
And now the whole round table is dissolved Which was the image of a mighty world And I the last go forth companionless. And days darken round me and the years Among new men, strange faces, other minds.
My very best wishes to you.
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 3, 2011 11:29:26 GMT -5
marco , don't apologize. I envy you. I love poetry but am an absolute klutz when it comes to writing it. I have often wished I could, but I've tried and my efforts are highly praised with "pathetc". And from one "senior citizen" to another, I agree with your view of spring.
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Post by londonladypiff on Aug 3, 2011 11:32:31 GMT -5
Thanks, I'll do just that. I like to meet new folks ( and lure them into my net, heh, heh, heh) Ummmm your not getting me into your pot.
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 3, 2011 11:42:20 GMT -5
Poem of the Day. "Midsummer" by William Cullen Bryant in Poems [Univ. of Michigan] A power is on the earth and in the air, From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, And shelters him in nooks of deepest shade, From the hot steam and from the fiery glare. Look forth upon the earth—her thousand plants Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze; The herd beside the shaded fountain pants; For life is driven from all the landscape brown; The bird hath sought his tree, the snake his den, The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men Drop by the sunstroke in the populous town: As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent Its deadly breath into the firmament. Bonus Poem: "The Gladness of Nature" by William Cullen Bryant. Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, When our mother Nature laughs around; When even the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground? There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den, And the wilding bee hums merrily by. The clouds are at play in the azure space And their shadows at play on the bright-green vale, And here they stretch to the frolic chase, And there they roll on the easy gale. There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, On the leaping waters and gay young isles; Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 4, 2011 9:19:46 GMT -5
Poem of the Day: "To a Waterfowl" by William Cullen Bryant.
Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?
There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-- The desert and illimitable air,-- Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.
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Post by Royston Vasey on Aug 4, 2011 12:20:56 GMT -5
What about the War Poets? Wilfred Owen's famous Dulce et Decorum Est sets the scene -
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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines 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 flound'ring 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.
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Post by Flying Horse on Aug 4, 2011 16:25:00 GMT -5
Rupert Brooke, "THe Soldier"
If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever 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 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.
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