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Poetry That Amazes You
 
# 1 : Monday 6-6-2011 @ 01:07
 
 
Only discovered the amazing poetry of Scroobius Pip today,have to say,i'm blown away. Have you any unknown poetry to share?

Video Link : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0GvR8t2HDys&feature=related
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# 2 : Monday 6-6-2011 @ 02:07
 
 
Butters utters,but does others? NO!
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# 3 : Saturday 11-6-2011 @ 21:19
 
 
I really loved the one you mailed me.

My own love in verse is Edward Lear.

There was a Young Lady whose chin,
Resembled the point of a pin;
So she had it made sharp,
And purchased a harp,
And played several tunes with her chin.

There was a Young Lady of Portugal,
Whose ideas were excessively nautical:
She climbed up a tree,
To examine the sea,
But declared she would never leave Portugal.

There was an Old Man of Leghorn,
The smallest that ever was born;
But quickly snapped up he
Was once by a puppy,
Who devoured that Old Man of Leghorn.

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# 4 : Saturday 11-6-2011 @ 21:25
 
 
I was actually just reading some poetry a minute ago, one that I loved from when I was a kid was:

The Listeners
By Walter De La Mare

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
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# 5 : Saturday 11-6-2011 @ 21:35
 
 
Anthem for Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,--
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.


What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of the boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
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# 6 : Saturday 11-6-2011 @ 22:03
 
 
Jennys penny

Jenny kisses many
Warmed the copper penny
Wedded to her neck
with cotton string

It was in the spring
When he found it
On a dusty drive]
Beside the meadow

And give to her
No words of passion
Spoken
He loved her with a
Token
The meadow now is brown
And overgrown with brambles
He is gone
The coin asleep
With cold
Deep down
In a woodland
Wishing pond.
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# 7 : Monday 13-6-2011 @ 03:08
 
 
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# 8 : Thursday 7-8-2014 @ 19:15
 
 
This doesn't amaze me but I couldn't find a more general poetry thread surprisingly:

http://www.breakingnews.ie/discover/this-guys-poem-about-his-firs etc ...
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# 9 : Thursday 7-8-2014 @ 19:36
 
 
Reading endlessly about potatoes in school killed my buzz for poetry. Limericks are good though.
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# 10 : Thursday 7-8-2014 @ 19:40
 
 
Someone said :
Reading endlessly about potatoes in school killed my buzz for poetry. Limericks are good though.

Aww I loved poetry in school.
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# 11 : Thursday 7-8-2014 @ 19:41
 
 
It was a cough that carried her off, it was a coffin they carried her off in.
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# 12 : Thursday 7-8-2014 @ 19:47
 
 
Someone said :
It was a cough that carried her off, it was a coffin they carried her off in.

Deep!

My latest blog is an amazing poem by a soldier who died in battle at the ripe old age of 20 after experiencing most of the horrors of WWI.

It's grim and one of my new favourite poems:


When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Across your dreams in pale battalions go,
Say not soft things as other men have said,
That you'll remember. For you need not so.
Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know
It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?
Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.
Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.
Say only this, "They are dead." Then add thereto,
"Yet many a better one has died before."
Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you
Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,
It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.
Great death has made all his for evermore.


This reading doesn't really do it justice but I can't find one that does:


Video Link : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Et9KkDIPebw


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# 13 : Thursday 7-8-2014 @ 19:52
 
 
Phillip Larkin is a great 20th century poet.


This Be The Verse
By Philip Larkin
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
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# 14 : Thursday 7-8-2014 @ 19:53
 
 
Rather listen to a well written song than reading a poem, not taking anything from the art its just what I prefer.
You hear some absolutely beautiful songs on the radio, none of them will ever make the charts but are written by masters of their craft - I make a mental note of the artist while driving (love radio by the way) but forget soon after which is my loss
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# 15 : Thursday 7-8-2014 @ 22:29
 
 
I write a bit. It's good therapy. I don't read enough though, which is my loss.
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