A little poetry

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A little poetry

Postby paulgill » 11 Dec 2010 0927

Dylan Thomas would understand us aging lifters:

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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Re: A little poetry

Postby paulgill » 11 Dec 2010 0927

Professor Lew Nicholson introduced me to William Blake. Tyger is one of my favorites:
Tyger.jpg
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Re: A little poetry

Postby monk » 11 Dec 2010 0927

Paul:

That was a truly outstanding poem you sent. I think it probably applies to every one of us, to some degree or other.

I will admit to one failing, if in fact it is a failing. I refuse to give in to the aging process.

In fact, when a part/area of my body starts going bad on me, I literally want to take a stick and start beating on that part/area, while yelling "Don't you (whap whap) start (whap whap) failing on me (whap whappity whap whap) now, (whap whap) you little shit (whap whap whappity whap whap whap)."

Haven't yet had the embarrassing situation of that happening in a "social" situation, but if it does, I'll just tell her I'm kinky and into self-flagellation...

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Re: A little poetry

Postby ironman » 15 Dec 2010 0927

...if i had but one poem that says it all, that digs in and never lets go, its this one..from tennyson's Ulysses -

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
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Re: A little poetry

Postby paulgill » 15 Dec 2010 0927

Great lines, Kent. Tennyson is one of my favorites. We all know the immortal lines from "The Charge of the Light Brigade." You probably remember the clipping of a Jim Murray column he wrote after the 1965 ND-USC game that described the sheet over the entrance to ND Stadium that said "Welcome Trojans, into the jaws of death and into the jaws of Hell." That student knew his Tennyson (see stanza three below):

Half a league half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred:
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do & die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd & thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack & Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke,
Shatter'd & sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse & hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
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Re: A little poetry

Postby paulgill » 15 Dec 2010 0927

And here is a cheerful little ode by Shelley:

Ozymandias

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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Re: A little poetry

Postby monk » 15 Dec 2010 0927

Lads:

If the Six Hundred were our football team, 200 would miss their blocks, 50 would be called for stupid penalties, 50 would allow a sack, 50 more would miss their tackle, 50 would miss a kick, 50 jailed for breaking underage drinking rules, 50 would transfer out of the outfit, and the rest sent out for cheeseburgers -- and nobody would be in the weight room.

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Re: A little poetry

Postby edfitzpatrick » 16 Dec 2010 0927

Gentlemen, let's not forget the writer who began a famous story a about certain, "Four Horsemen" with, "Outlined against a gray October sky....." Yes, Grantland Rice who was as respected a poet as a sports writer. I set forth for you,

GAME CALLED

"Game called" - across the field of play
The dusk has come, the hour is late;
The fight is done and, lost or won,
The player files out through the gate;
The tumult dies, the cheer is hushed,
The stands are bare, the park is still;
But through the night there shines the light
Of Home beyond the silent hill.

"Game called"- where in the golden light
The bugle rolled the reveille.
The shadows creep where night falls deep
And taps has called the end of play;
The game is done, the score is in,
The final cheer and jeer have passed,
But in the night beyond the fight
The player finds his rest at last.

"Game called"- upon the field of life
The darkness gathers, far and wide;
The dream is done, the score is spun
That stands forever in the guide;
Nor victory, nor yet defeat
Is chalked against a player's name,
But down the roll the final scroll
Shows only "how he played the game."

Ed
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Re: A little poetry

Postby ironman » 17 Dec 2010 0927

paul - check it out
http://www.amazon.com/Anthology-Beowulf ... 0268000069

can it be OUR lew nicholson? published in 1963
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Re: A little poetry

Postby paulgill » 17 Dec 2010 0927

Ironmind:

I am sure it is. The publisher is Notre Dame, and he was a Beowulf expert. Is he still alive? Ii have to say, I never had much interest in poetry until I took his class sophomore year. He introduced us to Coleridge, William Blake, and others. "In Xanadu a pleasure dome did Kubla Kahn decree..."
I still get goose bumps when I read "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner."

`God save thee, ancient Mariner !
From the fiends, that plague thee thus !--
Why look'st thou so ?'--With my cross-bow
I shot the ALBATROSS.
RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.jpg
RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.jpg (80.18 KiB) Viewed 11144 times


What was your major at ND, Kent? I was Arts & Letters Pre-Prof. It gave me lots of exposure to the humanities. I wish I had had more, and had been mature enough to appreciate it.

Paul
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