Poetry The Poetry Thread

[Grey]

I think that more than any other literary discipline, poetry benefits the most from constant practice and in-depth study. A broad understanding of the techniques, history, and context is, in my opinion, vital to producing good poetry.


For that reason, I thought that with a few of us dabbling in poetry here, it might be good to share some of our favourite poets and their work, to look at the masters and try to understand what makes them so excellent, and discuss the particulars of the form.


I'll start with my favourites: Robert Frost, John Donne, Sylvia Plath, Patience Agbabi, T.S. Eliot, John Montgomery (the modern one, not the monk), Allan Ginsberg, and some others who, as with my favourite bands and authors, don't come to mind immediately.


Some examples:


Design, by Frost


I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,


On a white heal-all, holding up a moth


Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth --


Assorted characters of death and blight


Mixed ready to begin the morning right,


Like the ingredients of a witches' broth --


A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,


And dead wings carried like a paper kite.


What had that flower to do with being white,


The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?


What brought the kindred spider to that height,


Then steered the white moth thither in the night?


What but design of darkness to appall?--


If design govern in a thing so small.


My favourite excerpt from The Waste Land, by Eliot - Death By Water


Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,


Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell


And the profit and loss.


A current under sea


Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell


He passed the stages of his age and youth


Entering the whirlpool.


Gentile or Jew


O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,


Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.


And a link to Montgomery, who is as much street-artist as he is poet.

 

[Grey]

Bump because come on you guys

 

[Grey]

I am very disappointed in literally everyone.

 

[KnightofShadows]

I feel your pain Grey, lol. I have only just discovered your links here in the creative thread, after having posted some poetry of my own to share with the minions of RPdom. I am a true fan of the art, and of literature and the written word as a whole.


I am glad to know there are others out there who share the fascination and interest and have a profound respect for the written word and the art of true poetry.


I share a great respect for many of the poets you shared as your own favorites and would a few that readily come to mind; E. E. Cummings, Edgar Allan Poe, William Wordsworth, Walt Whitman, William Butler Yeats, Charles Bukowski, William Blake, Langston Hughes, and perhaps my favorite, or at least my favorite piece is Alfred, Lord Tennyson below.


The Lady of Shalott (1832)


BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON


Part I


On either side the river lie


Long fields of barley and of rye,


That clothe the wold and meet the sky;


And thro' the field the road runs by


To many-tower'd Camelot;


The yellow-leaved waterlily


The green-sheathed daffodilly


Tremble in the water chilly


Round about Shalott.


Willows whiten, aspens shiver.


The sunbeam showers break and quiver


In the stream that runneth ever


By the island in the river


Flowing down to Camelot.


Four gray walls, and four gray towers


Overlook a space of flowers,


And the silent isle imbowers


The Lady of Shalott.


Underneath the bearded barley,


The reaper, reaping late and early,


Hears her ever chanting cheerly,


Like an angel, singing clearly,


O'er the stream of Camelot.


Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,


Beneath the moon, the reaper weary


Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,


Lady of Shalott.'


The little isle is all inrail'd


With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd


With roses: by the marge unhail'd


The shallop flitteth silken sail'd,


Skimming down to Camelot.


A pearl garland winds her head:


She leaneth on a velvet bed,


Full royally apparelled,


The Lady of Shalott.


Part II


No time hath she to sport and play:


A charmed web she weaves alway.


A curse is on her, if she stay


Her weaving, either night or day,


To look down to Camelot.


She knows not what the curse may be;


Therefore she weaveth steadily,


Therefore no other care hath she,


The Lady of Shalott.


She lives with little joy or fear.


Over the water, running near,


The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.


Before her hangs a mirror clear,


Reflecting tower'd Camelot.


And as the mazy web she whirls,


She sees the surly village churls,


And the red cloaks of market girls


Pass onward from Shalott.


Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,


An abbot on an ambling pad,


Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,


Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,


Goes by to tower'd Camelot:


And sometimes thro' the mirror blue


The knights come riding two and two:


She hath no loyal knight and true,


The Lady of Shalott.


But in her web she still delights


To weave the mirror's magic sights,


For often thro' the silent nights


A funeral, with plumes and lights


And music, came from Camelot:


Or when the moon was overhead


Came two young lovers lately wed;


I am half sick of shadows,' said


The Lady of Shalott.


Part III


A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,


He rode between the barley-sheaves,


The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,


And flam'd upon the brazen greaves


Of bold Sir Lancelot.


A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd


To a lady in his shield,


That sparkled on the yellow field,


Beside remote Shalott.


The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,


Like to some branch of stars we see


Hung in the golden Galaxy.


The bridle bells rang merrily


As he rode down from Camelot:


And from his blazon'd baldric slung


A mighty silver bugle hung,


And as he rode his armour rung,


Beside remote Shalott.


All in the blue unclouded weather


Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,


The helmet and the helmet-feather


Burn'd like one burning flame together,


As he rode down from Camelot.


As often thro' the purple night,


Below the starry clusters bright,


Some bearded meteor, trailing light,


Moves over green Shalott.


His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;


On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;


From underneath his helmet flow'd


His coal-black curls as on he rode,


As he rode down from Camelot.


From the bank and from the river


He flash'd into the crystal mirror,


'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'


Sang Sir Lancelot.


She left the web, she left the loom


She made three paces thro' the room


She saw the water-flower bloom,


She saw the helmet and the plume,


She look'd down to Camelot.


Out flew the web and floated wide;


The mirror crack'd from side to side;


'The curse is come upon me,' cried


The Lady of Shalott.


Part IV


In the stormy east-wind straining,


The pale yellow woods were waning,


The broad stream in his banks complaining,


Heavily the low sky raining


Over tower'd Camelot;


Outside the isle a shallow boat


Beneath a willow lay afloat,


Below the carven stern she wrote,


The Lady of Shalott.


A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight,


All raimented in snowy white


That loosely flew (her zone in sight


Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright)


Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot,


Though the squally east-wind keenly


Blew, with folded arms serenely


By the water stood the queenly


Lady of Shalott.


With a steady stony glance—


Like some bold seer in a trance,


Beholding all his own mischance,


Mute, with a glassy countenance—


She look'd down to Camelot.


It was the closing of the day:


She loos'd the chain, and down she lay;


The broad stream bore her far away,


The Lady of Shalott.


As when to sailors while they roam,


By creeks and outfalls far from home,


Rising and dropping with the foam,


From dying swans wild warblings come,


Blown shoreward; so to Camelot


Still as the boathead wound along


The willowy hills and fields among,


They heard her chanting her deathsong,


The Lady of Shalott.


A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,


She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,


Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,


And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,


Turn'd to tower'd Camelot:


For ere she reach'd upon the tide


The first house by the water-side,


Singing in her song she died,


The Lady of Shalott.


Under tower and balcony,


By garden wall and gallery,


A pale, pale corpse she floated by,


Deadcold, between the houses high,


Dead into tower'd Camelot.


Knight and burgher, lord and dame,


To the planked wharfage came:


Below the stern they read her name,


The Lady of Shalott.


They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest,


Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.


There lay a parchment on her breast,


That puzzled more than all the rest,


The wellfed wits at Camelot.


'The web was woven curiously,


The charm is broken utterly,


Draw near and fear not,—this is I,


The Lady of Shalott.'


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