He's certainly unique. I've never been very interested in his work, but I've never spent a lot of time with American poetry as a whole. Always been a bigger fan of the stuff from across the pond.
GOAT? I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
Back in action, [itch bay]es. Epode VIII - Rogare longo by: Horace You dare to ask me, you decrepit, stinking slut, what makes me impotent? And you with blackened teeth, and so advanced in age that wrinkles plough your forehead, your raw and filthy arsehole gaping like a cow's between your wizened buttocks. It's your slack breasts that rouse me (I have seen much better udders on a mare). Your flabby paunch and scrawny thighs stuck on your swollen ankles. May you be blessed with wealth! May effigies of triumphators march you to the grave, and may no other wife go on parade weighed down with fatter pearls! But why do Stoic tracts so love to lie on your silk cushions? They won't cause big erections or delay the droop - you know that penises can't read. If that is what you want from my fastidious groin, your mouth has got some work to do.
I'm sure some of the poetic beauty of it gets lost in translation, as it was originally written in Latin.
This thread has been overdue for a bump. Any Poe fans in the house? Annabel Lee BY EDGAR ALLAN POE It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Reminds of this: In a cavern, in a canyon Excavating for a mine Lived a miner, forty-niner And his daughter, Clementine Oh, my darling, oh, my darling Oh, my darling Clementine You are lost and gone forever Dreadful sorry, Clementine Light she was and like a fairy And her shoes were number nine Herring boxes without topses Sandals were for Clementine Oh, my darling, oh, my darling Oh, my darling Clementine You are lost and gone forever Dreadful sorry, Clementine
The new iPad air commercial has me wondering if we have any Whitman fans on the board. O Me! O Life! BY WALT WHITMAN Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring, Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish, Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d, Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me, Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined, The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here—that life exists and identity, That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
Like Poe and Walt Whitman. I also like my good friend Ernest Slyman. What Is Poetry? One discovers one's voice like removing one's coat or trousers -- a leg or arm may appear, and removing one's shoes to discover an old woman playing a violin. And because we notice reflected in things not there what the world conceals, like a rat beneath the bed, eyes glaring in the dark of a damp sentence. The pen blindly finds the bones of a murdered child in a snowy wood, deaf it hears the holy silence which frightens the words like birds from our pens. They perch on scraggily limbs and cry like stones. Dusk Seven o'clock crossed the street carefully side-stepping puddles of starlight -- the puddles shimmered with the lights of a seven-room house in which the moon, threadbare vagabond, lives. The day had beat its wings, fluttered above the elms, and flew off toward the west to visit a sick friend. The rosebush, awakened by a dog's bark in Mr Caldwell's yard, whispered its nightly caution, which slipped inside the dark and swallowed the town house by house, street by street. One by one the fireflies light their torches on the stars -- the amber glow holding things sacred, believing nothing perishes, even as it falls, flickers and falls along the lush grass.
More from Ernest Slyman. The Alligator In the swamp swims a riddle, with a powerful tail. So don't fiddle with this riddle or it'll bite off your middle, munch you, and you'll wail, and in little or no time, it'll swallow you up -- chomp, glurp, slurp, hi-diddle-diddle. Late September When the calendar broke little numerals fell out along the ground, except for seven who went to Heaven and nine who had a good time at the picture show, and six who played fiddlesticks till the days went up in smoke and tick made not a sound as it crossed the meadow to Grandmother's house, and tock, full of shame, fell down a wishing well, and the first hand cried at a drop of rain, the second hand died and went to Hell, and the clock turned around, put its back to the wall; and all the hours and minutes wept for late September (may it rest in peace) while tomorrow awoke, and yesterday spent its days without hope.
