The sun kisses the morning skies The birds kiss the butterflies The dew kisses the morning grass I forgot the rest.
no poet favored two sides of a fallen leaf the wind will decide here's a great poem, perhaps even topical: We shall meet again, in Petersburg, as though we had buried the sun there, and then we shall pronounce for the first time the blessed word with no meaning. In the Soviet night, in the velvet dark, in the black velvet Void, the loved eyes of the blessed women are still singing, flowers are blooming that will never die. The capital hunches like a wild cat, a patrol is stationed on the bridge, a single car rushes past in the dark, snarling, hooting like a cuckoo. For this night I need no pass. I’m not afraid of the sentries. I will pray in the Soviet night for the blessed word with no meaning. A rustling, as in a theater, and a girl suddenly crying out, and the arms of Cypris are weighed down with roses that will never fall. For something to do we warm ourselves at a bonfire, maybe the ages will die away and the loved hands of the blessed women will brush the light ashes together. Somewhere audiences of red flowers exist, and the fat sofas of the loges, and a clockwork officer looking down on the world. Never mind if our candles go out in the velvet, in the black Void. The bowed shoulders of the blessed women are still singing. You’ll never notice the night’s sun. -osip mandelstam
I have a faint recollection of some poem this Russkie did about bees or a beehive or something ... I remember liking it, but otherwise nothing. Any idea?
not sure, but i like russian lit in general. late 19th-early 20th was amazing. and yes, i am a commie.
Didn't realize I stepped into amateur hour at the Apollo. Where's the real stuff? Hate him or love him he's still in your mind Bending you over and thrustin from behind Watchin you moan with ecstasy Screamin with your mouth, look at me Hercules used to be the man but now its ronny the guy who gets me wet and feelin howny My game started back in 93 When nobody was listenin but child models and me Now Im platinum in 2 countries soon to be three Postings gotten lazy but I still got ladies Closer than close, Faster than most Raise your glasses and pop off a toast He's not your friend but wants you to see Nobody does it, better than me The high number of illiterates will prefer this format to conventional prose. It streamlines things and makes it easier for the kids to digest. But I'm a grown man. I do a lotta grown man things. You don't even know your body yet. And I wanna see some grown poetry.
The gold standard has been posted. Will check back tomorrow to see if something from the 20th century can match it. In the meantime, enjoy extracting meaning from the yawn fest.
-1 You can sing all her poems to the Yellow Rose of Texas tune, while picturing a bunch of line dancing cowgirls (do try this.) I would say Michael Ondaatje is one of my favorite poets. I really liked his book The Cinnamon Peeler.
An intelligent and well-written post but I really disagree. Art has no rules until after the art is made. Sometimes it has no rules even after the art is made. We have learned as artists how to make art, in various mediums, without rules of any sort and perhaps without meaning of any sort more than 100 years ago. Some contemporary artists pursue classical forms and some break the rules and create something new. As for function, I've been a working (theatre) artist for nineteen years, and I deny that the work I make has any function at all. Neither form nor function are necessary to art. You can talk of the rules of art up until today but they will be out of date by tomorrow. The critic or historian invents a term, maybe "theatre of the absurd," maybe "punk rock," after it has happened. The rules are, in fact, broken so badly that we need entirely new words to describe the entirely new thing, if it can even be described. Art isn't math. It isn't science or the news. It has no allegiance to anything at all other than that the artist engender it with one. Because art isn't the story of what happened; it's the story of how it felt. And the ways of expressing oneself emotionally are beyond number. And the idea that an artist must be aware of what's come before to create what comes next? That's a little silly. The list of great artists that never went to school or learned the history of their craft is enormous. There's even a small argument to be made against educating artists about what's gone before because when we do, we are teaching new artists how to express themselves in old ways. Last year's art is hopelessly out of date with today's art. That is good. Alfred Jarry, the mad genius creator of Ubu Roi and of 'pataphysics (the science of imaginary solutions), an historic breaker of rules whose rule-breaking can claim some responsibility for whole entire trip-out movements like Dada. All those guys were 'pataphysicians. There is an actual society that exists to this day. Anyway, in considering this question, I always think of this Alfred Jarry quote. It is one of my favorites.
Can't believe I have missed this thread!! Love poetry especially the romantics of British Lit: Wordsworth Coleridge Shelley Byron and my favorite of all in Keats I don't care for Blake and really have no reason for this. But it is what it is.
All-time favorite poem by all-time favorite poet: Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring'd legend haunt about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal - yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
George Watsky Grew up as a slam poetry competitor even making it onto DefJam poetry, and he has recently gotten into becoming a rapper after one of his YouTube verses went viral. I think he is doing quite a good job in being himself, and showing he truly has a love for hip hop which I highly appreciate in a rapper. The fact that he also grew up as a slam poet competitor at a national level definitely increases his cred as a lyricist but anyways here's some of his poetry: Funny, but smart poem for high school virgins <iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/212iH9jckT8" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe> Nice video/collabo with indie chick singer Mieka Pauley: <iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/YtQqK7BWq_c" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe> Obligatory Love poem: <iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/tW0iiriacSg" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
