Who wants a poetry thread?

[Modem Butterfly]

I'll get things started with a little John Crowe Ransom:

Here lies a lady of beauty and high degree
Of chills and fever she died, of fever and chills.
The delight of her husband, her aunt, an infant of three
And of medicoes marvelling sweetly on her ills

For either she burned and her confident eyes would blaze
And her fingers fly in a manner to puzzle their heads;
What was she making? Why nothing; she sat in a daze
Of old scraps of lace, snipped into curious shreds

Or this would pass, and the light of her fire decline
Till she lay discouraged and cold, like a stalk white and blown
And would not open her eyes to kisses or to wine;
The sixth of these states was her last; the cold settled down.

Sweet ladies, long may ye bloom, and toughly I hope ye may thole;
But was she not lucky? In flowers and lace and mourning
In love and great honor we bade God rest her soul
After six little spaces of chill and six of burning.

[DeposeTheBoyKing]

1. Some not-so-famous Robert Frost

IN A DISUSED GRAVEYARD

The living come with grassy tread
To read the gravestones on the hill;
The graveyard draws the living still,
But never anymore the dead.
The verses in it say and say:
"The ones who living come today
To read the stones and go away
Tomorrow dead will come to stay."
So sure of death the marbles rhyme,
Yet can't help marking all the time
How no one dead will seem to come.
What is it men are shrinking from?
It would be easy to be clever
And tell the stones: Men hate to die
And have stopped dying now forever.
I think they would believe the lie.

[Modem Butterfly]

2. Here's another one I've been thinking about lately

It seems appropriate with everything that's gone on in New Orleans. It's actually a song by Bob Dylan, but it has the advantage of being a true story. Here's a link to the story behind the song.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/arts/fridayreview/story/0,12102,1424244,00.html

The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll

William Zanzinger killed poor Hattie Carroll
With a cane that he twirled 'round his diamond ring finger
At a Baltimore hotel society gatherin'
An' the cops were called in an' his weapon took from him
As they rode him in custody down to the station
An' booked William Zanzinger for first degree murder.
But you who philosophize disgrace
An' criticize all fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain't the time for your tears.

William Zanzinger who at twenty four years
Owns a tobacco farm of six hundred acres
With rich wealthy parents who provide an' protect him
An' high office relations in the politics of Maryland
Reacted to his deed with a shrug of his shoulders
An' swear words an' sneerin', an' his tongue it was snarlin'
In a matter of minutes on bail was out walkin'.
But you who philosophize disgrace
An' criticize all fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain't the time for your tears

Hattie Carroll was a maid in the kitchen
She was fifty-one years old an' gave birth to ten children
Who carried the dishes an' took out the garbage
An' never sat once at the head of the table
An' didn't even talk to the people at the table
Who just cleaned up all the food from the table
An' emptied the ashtrays on a whole other level.
Got killed by a blow, lay slain by a cane
That sailed thru the air an' came down thru the room
Doomed an' determined to destroy all the gentle
An' she never done nothin' to William Zanzinger.
But you who philosophize disgrace
An' criticize all fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain't the time for your tears

In the courtroom of honor the judge pounded his gavel
To show that all's equal an' that the courts are on the level
An' that the strings in the books ain't pulled an' persuaded
An' that even the nobles get properly handled
Once that the cops have chased after an' caught 'em
An' that the ladder of law has no top an' no bottom
Stared at the person who killed for no reason
Who just happened to be feelin' that way without warnin'
An' he spoke thru his cloak, most deep an' distinguished
An' handed out strongly for penalty an' repentance
William Zanzinger with a six month sentence.
But you who philosophize disgrace
An' criticize all fears
Bury the rag away from your face
For now's the time for your tears

[Heidi]

3. "Any System" by Leonard Cohen.

Any System
by Leonard Cohen

Any system you contrive without us
will be brought down
We warned you before
and nothing that you built has stood
Hear it as you lean over your blueprint
Hear it as you roll up your sleeve

Hear it once again
Any system you contrive without us
will be brought down
You have your drugs
You have your guns
You have your Pyramids you Pentagons
With all your grass and bullets
you cannot hunt us any more

All that we disclose of ourselves forever
is this warning
Nothing that you built has stood
Any system you contrive without us
will be brought down.

From The Energy of Slaves, Leonard Cohen, 1975

[Aristus]

4. For the repuke chickenhawks out there:

Ducle et Decorum est
by Wilfred Owen

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 gas-shells dropping softly 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
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.

[AnarchoFreeThinker]

5. an original:

There once was a place called DU
Where posters could post well at Level 2
As the levels increased
Sig lines and avatars ceased
And flaming idiots in GD grew and grew.

[jus_the_facts]

6. Tasting the Earth ~ James Oppenheim 1882

IN a dark hour, tasting the Earth.

As I lay on my couch in the muffled night, and the rain lashed my window,
And my forsaken heart would give me no rest, no pause and no peace,
Though I turned my face far from the wailing of my bereavement....
Then I said: I will eat of this sorrow to its last shred,
I will take it unto me utterly,
I will see if I be not strong enough to contain it....
What do I fear? Discomfort?
How can it hurt me, this bitterness?

The miracle, then!
Turning toward it, and giving up to it,
I found it deeper than my own self....
O dark great mother-globe so close beneath me...
It was she with her inexhaustible grief,
Ages of blood-drenched jungles, and the smoking of craters, and the roar of tempests,
And moan of the forsaken seas,
It was she with the hills beginning to walk in the shapes of the dark-hearted animals,
It was she risen, dashing away tears and praying to dumb skies, in the pomp-crumbling tragedy of man...
It was she, container of all griefs, and the buried dust of broken hearts,

Cry of the christs and the lovers and the child-stripped mothers,
And ambition gone down to defeat, and the battle overborne,
And the dreams that have no waking....

My heart became her ancient heart:
On the food of the strong I fed, on dark strange life itself:
Wisdom-giving and sombre with the unremitting love of ages....

There was dank soil in my mouth,
And bitter sea on my lips,
In a dark hour, tasting the Earth.

[Modem Butterfly]

7. The Heaven of Animals by James Dickey

Here they are. The soft eyes open.
If they have lived in a wood
It is a wood.
If they have lived on plains
It is grass rolling
Under their feet forever.

Having no souls, they have come,
Anyway, beyond their knowing.
Their instincts wholly bloom
And they rise.
The soft eyes open.

To match them, the landscape flowers,
Outdoing, desperately
Outdoing what is required:
The richest wood,
The deepest field.

For some of these,
It could not be the place
It is, without blood.
These hunt, as they have done
But with claws and teeth grown perfect,

More deadly than they can believe.
They stalk more silently,
And crouch on limbs of trees,
And their descent
Upon the bright backs of their prey

May take years
In a sovereign floating of joy.
And those that are hunted
Know this as their life,
Their reward: to walk

Under such trees in full knowledge
Of what is in glory above them,
And to feel no fear,
But acceptance, compliance.
Fulfilling themselves without pain

At the cycle's center,
They tremble, they walk
Under the tree,
They fall, they are torn,
They rise, they walk again.

[Modem Butterfly]

8. Sex Without Love by Sharon Olds

How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health--just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.

[yewberry]

9. Winter Sunset

Winter Sunset
by Charles Simic

Such skies came to worry men
On the eve of great battles:
Clouds soaked in blood of the dying day
That made the horses restless,

So the soothsayers were summoned
But kept their mouths shut
About the meaning of it,
Even when shown the naked sword.

The gloomy heavens made gloomier
By the shadow play of unknown tribes
And their heroes on the run.
The white church tower of the First Congregational

Clutching its bird-shaped weathervane
Against it all, but the village deserted.
Not a soul in sight. The people indoors
Afraid to get up and turn on the lights.

Some young farm woman, dress unbuttoned,
A small child on her knees,
Its head turning away from her full breast . . .
Eyes full of the sky's terror and luster.

-- From The Book of Gods and Devils

[trackfan]

10. Ogden Nash - A Drink With Something In It

There is something about a Martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant;
A yellow, a mellow Martini;
I wish that I had one at present.
There is something about a Martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth,
It is not the vermouth —
I think that perhaps it's the Gin.

There is something about an old-fashioned
That kindles a cardiac glow;
It is soothing and soft and impassioned
As a lyric by Swinburne or Poe.
There is something about an old-fashioned
When the dusk has enveloped the sky,
And it may be the ice,
Or the pineapple slice,
But I strongly suspect it's the Rye.

There is something about a mint julep.
It is nectar imbibed in a dream,
As fresh as the bud of the tulip,
As cool as the bed of the stream.
There is something about a mint julep,
A fragrance beloved by the lucky.
And perhaps it's the tint
Of the frost and the mint,
But I think it was born in Kentucky.

There is something they put in a highball
That awakens the torpidest brain,
That kindles a spark in the eyeball,
Gliding singing through vein after vein.
There is something they put in a highball
Which you'll notice one day if you watch;
And it may be the soda,
But judged by the odor,
I rather believe it's the Scotch.

Then here's to the heartening wassail,
Wherever good fellows are found;
Be its master instead of its vassal,
And order the glasses around.
Oh, it's Beer if you're bend on expansion,
And Wine if you wish to grow thin,
But quaffers who think
Of a drink as a drink,
When they quaff, quaff of Whisky and Gin.