I am at a retreat where we have been reading and reading analyzing a lot of poetry and inspirational writing, which is interesting since the group is mostly physicians. Here is one of my favorites that perhaps you've heard of before, though I hadn't:

The Woodcarver
~ Chuang Tzu

Khing, the master carver, made a bell stand
Of precious wood. When it was finished,
All who saw it were astounded. They said it msut be
The work of spirits.
The Prince of Lu said to the master carver:
"What is your secret?"

Khing replied: "I am only a workman:
I have no secret. There is only this:
When I began to think about the work you commanded
I guarded my spirit, did not expend it
On trifles, that were not to the point.
I fasted in order to set
My heart at rest.
After three days fasting, I had forgotten gain and success.
After five days
I had forgotten praise or criticism.
After seven days
I had forgotten my body
With all its limbs.

"By this time all thought of your Highness
And the court had faded away.
All that might distract me from the work
Had vanished.
I was collected in the single thought
Of the bell stand.

"Then I went to the forest
To see the trees in their own natural state.
Whe the right tree appeared before my eyes,
The bell stand also appeared in it, clearly, beyond doubt.
All I had to do was to put forth my hand
And begin.
"If I had not met this particular tree
There would have been
No bell stand at all.

"What happened?
My own collect thought
Encountered the hidden potential in the wood;
From this live encounter came the work
Which you ascribe to the spirits."

This is a poem (is it really a poem? If not, what is it?) that I like. What do you think it is that you should remember?

The Real Work

There is one thing in this world that you must never forget to do. If you forget everything else and not this, there's nothing to about; but if you remember everything else and forget this, then you will have done nothing in your life.

It's as if a king has sent you on a journey to do a task, and you perform a hundred other services, but not the one he sent you to do. So human beings come into this world to do particular work. That work is the purpose, and each is specific to the person.

You say, "But I spend my energies on lofty enterprises. I study jurisprudence and philosophy...and medicine and all the rest." But consider why you do these things. They are all branches of yourself...remember the deep root of your being.

~ Rumi

This has been discussed previously. My own view is that blank verse is very easy to write and much of the output of modern poets, like the output of many modern artists in other fields, is gratuitous rubbish.

A well- crafted limerick, almost unversally denigrated by "serious" poets, is more clever, more memorable and far harder to write than much of the non-rhyming guff that we see passed off as poetry.

An item is well- written prose doesn't become poetry simply by being divided into stanzas, by my standards. And an item that is badly written prose simply becomes badly-written prose in stanzas.

I know that there are many (including Bob) who may disagree - but that's my take on the topic.

And I do disagree. But not in this particular case. This was clearly written as and intended to be prose.

And here it is as a "poem".

Never forget one thing in this world,
Forget everything else but not this.
Remember everything else and forget this -
Then you will have done nothing in your life.

It is as though a king has sent you on a journey to do a task
And you perform a hundred other services
But fail to perfom the one he sent you to do.

So human beings come into this world to do particular work.
That work is their purpose
And each purpose is specific to the person.

You may say, "But I spend my energies on lofty enterprises".
You may say "I study jurisprudence and philosophy
And medicine and all the rest."
But consider why you do these things - they are all branches of yourself.
Remember the deep root of your being.

There you go - 5 minutes - now where's my cheque?

quote:

This was clearly written as and intended to be prose.

It was presented as a poem. Bob and I have been disagreeing lately, haven't we? However, in the end I think I agree that it's not really a poem, though I am more strict than others on that. I'd also say the first one was prose and not a poem. They are both interesting readings, though, that stimulate good discussion and thought.

Richard, I love your rewrite. Five minutes, yes, but much of it you got from the original. I rather like Rumi, but it's a matter of taste, I suppose...just like particular limericks are or double dactyls or whatever.

quote:

Richard, I love your rewrite! May I send it to the group (acknowledging you, of course!)?

Surely. Let me know if you'd like me to polish it. I genuinely did convert it in just 5 minutes and could probably do a better job in 10.

Mind you, if you want a limerick that will take a bit longer.

As with the question "what is a word?", we have often asked here "what is a poem?". Some think of poetry quite liberally; for example, this is one of the definitions of "poetry" in Dictionary.com: "Prose that resembles a poem in some respect, as in form or sound." Yet, I don't agree. I think there has to be some element of meter or rhyming to be poetry.

Speaking of which...

Remember your deep roots of being,
When going through life and agreeing
To study and work
As a doctor or clerk,
Or the purpose you'll never be seeing.

Very nice.

Such a shame that L3/4 don't rhyme in UK English :-(

Here it would need to be something like:

Remember your deep roots of being,
When going through life and agreeing
To study and work
And never to shirk,
Or the purpose you'll never be seeing.

"Work" and "clerk" don't rhyme? That's odd. Even if you were to say them differently than we do, I'd think they'd both be said the same way. Oh, well...pronunciations always confuse me.

We pronounce "clerk" to rhyme with "lark". Yes, I know...

So your "or" sound doesn't rhyme with the "er" sound in any word? How do you say "word?" Does it rhyme with "lard?" My, my...

word, heard, turd, bird (maybe) concurred

hard card lard marred bard

clerk hark shark park

Any help?

British English pronuciation of clerk amd derby is different from US English pronuciation of same words, K. It's just one of those things ...

I never would have figured those pronunciations out, Bob. Do words like "perk" and "jerk" also rhyme with "lark?" It isn't just "clerk, right? Are "perk" and "park" homonyms to you then?

Nope, it's just "clerk" (and as zm says "derby"). It's just an oddity of those particular words.

This message has been edited. Last edited by: BobHale,

& if I'm not mistaken, the actress we think is Deborah KERR is Deborah KARR "over thar".

D

Richard Wilbur, an 85-year-old poet, recently won the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize from the Chicago-based Poetry Foundation, along with $100,000. Here is a good article about him in the Washington Post. And here is one of his poems, from the Tribune article:

A Fire Truck

Right down the shocked street with a siren-blast
That sends all else skittering to the curb,
Redness, brass, ladders and hats hurl past,
Blurring to sheer verb,

Shift at the corner into uproarious gear
And make it around the turn in a squall of traction,
The headlong bell maintaining sure and clear,
Thought is degraded action!

Beautiful, heavy, unweary, loud, obvious thing!
I stand here purged of nuance, my mind a blank.
All I was brooding upon has taken wing,
And I have you to thank.

As you howl beyond hearing I carry you into my mind,
Ladders and brass and all, there to admire
Your phoenix-red simplicity, enshrined
In that not extinguished fire.

Interestingly, the article said that he has been criticized over the years for sticking with meter and rhymes, as free-verse has become more popular. The Tribune article said, "But readers of poetry who aren't specialists love rhyme and meter." Guess I'm not a poetry specialist because I love meter and rhymes.

This message has been edited. Last edited by: Kalleh,

Did any of you hear about Poetry Out Loud, the national poetry recitation contest? I heard about it on NPR and am delighted to hear that a Columbus boy won! Yay us!

Back to your original two works, Kalleh: They were transliterations from very different languages, so who's to say they weren't poems in Chinese or Arabic?

Good point, Asa.

In the Chicago Tribune today they published the winning poem in the Illinois Council Against Handgun Violence's 11th annual essay, poetry and art contest. It was writtne by Anna Grzybowski, a junior at Lane Tech High School, Chicago. It's free verse, but I like it. It speaks volumes about handgun violence in Chicago...and around the country really.

How It All Began

Little Tommy, Age 6,
Playing outside on a hot, musty day
Searching for a hint of relief
Pulls out a baby blue super soaker
Squirt
One robber down, two to go.

Blur

Little Tommy, Age 11:
Christmas Eve
Grabbing presents from under the tree
Hastily tearing apart the green and red paper
Smiling maliciously
While observing his new escape key
from reality
His new day and night obsession
Eye magnet
Distraction

Blur

New Teen Tommy, Age 14:
Trip to paint ball hill
For a friendly game
Pulls trigger
Blue, red, green bullets
Wounding others, but not sinking in.

Blur

"Grown up" Tommy, Age 16:
Doesn't need school
Hates his life
Searching for acceptance

Blur

Gang Banger Tom, Age 17:
New family, new life
Dealing, beating
Walking down the street
Getting jumped.

Blur

Well-trained Tom:
Reaching for his waist
Pulls it out
2 shots. No water this time.
No paint.
No "Mission Accomplished."

Blur

Thomas Montgomery
Still 17:
Locked up, 5 to 10
Sitting on a worn down stool
Eyes closed
Cheeks moist
Heart broken
His Future
A blur
This Message
Clear

Reviving a thread...

I revived this poetry thread because I was inspired by the movie, "Invictus." BTW, Morgan Freeman was great!

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley

If you have the urge to post some poetry, we'd love to read it.

This is hardly related to poems, but it is related to Morgan Freeman.

Welcome, marger10! How about posting some of your favorites.

Your name is interesting. Recently we've had some spammers here, all with numbers after their names. Even though you have a "10" after your name, your post is relevant to the thread, so you seem to be legit. Welcome aboard!

Not entirely convinced this isn't from a slightly better targetted spambot - the name has the right form. When are you implementing the email verification?

This poem isn't for a sophisticated crowd, but I always love Gilbert - I can just imagine it in a song. Shu was looking for something else and happened upon this, though of course he knew it:

The Yarn of the “Nancy Bell”
William Schwenck Gilbert (1836–1911)

From “The Bab Ballads”

’T WAS on the shores that round our coast
From Deal to Ramsgate span,
That I found alone, on a piece of stone,
An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long,
And weedy and long was he;
And I heard this wight on the shore recite,
In a singular minor key:—

“O, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain’s gig.”

And he shook his fist and he tore his hair,
Till I really felt afraid,
For I couldn’t help thinking the man had been drinking,
And so I simply said:—

“O elderly man, it ’s little I know
Of the duties of men of the sea,
And I ’ll eat my hand if I understand
How you can possibly be

“At once a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain’s gig!”

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which
Is a trick all seamen larn,
And having got rid of a thumping quid
He spun this painful yarn:—

“’T was in the good ship Nancy Bell
That we sailed to the Indian sea,
And there on a reef we come to grief,
Which has often occurred to me.

“And pretty nigh all o’ the crew was drowned
(There was seventy-seven o’ soul);
And only ten of the Nancy’s men
Said ‘Here’ to the muster-roll.

“There was me, and the cook, and the captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And the bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain’s gig.

“For a month we ’d neither wittles nor drink,
Till a-hungry we did feel,
So we drawed a lot, and accordin’, shot
The captain for our meal.

“The next lot fell to the Nancy’s mate,
And a delicate dish he made;
Then our appetite with the midshipmite
We seven survivors stayed.

And then we murdered the bo’sun tight,
And he much resembled pig;
Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,
On the crew of the captain’s gig.

“Then only the cook and me was left,
And the delicate question, ‘Which
Of us two goes to the kettle?’ arose,
And we argued it out as sich.

“For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,
And the cook he worshipped me;
But we ’d both be blowed if we ’d either be stowed
In the other chap’s hold, you see.

“‘I ’ll be eat if you dines off me,’ says Tom.
‘Yes, that,’ says I, ‘you ’ll be.
I ’m boiled if I die, my friend,’ quoth I;
And ‘Exactly so,’ quoth he.

“Says he: ‘Dear James, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do,
For don’t you see that you can’t cook me,
While I can—and will—cook you!’

“So he boils the water, and takes the salt
And the pepper in portions true
(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot,
And some sage and parsley too.

“‘Come here,’ says he, with a proper pride,
Which his smiling features tell;
‘’T will soothing be if I let you see
How extremely nice you ’ll smell.’

“And he stirred it round, and round, and round,
And he sniffed at the foaming froth;
When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals
In the scum of the boiling broth.

“And I eat that cook in a week or less,
And as I eating be
The last of his chops, why I almost drops,
For a wessel in sight I see.
* * * * *
“And I never larf, and I never smile,
And I never lark nor play;
But I sit and croak, and a single joke
I have—which is to say:

“O, I am a cook and a captain bold
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain’s gig!”

Love that Gilbert poem, I'd never read it!

It's reminding me of this old favorite:

The Walrus and the Carpenter
by Lewis Carroll (a/k/a Charles Lutwidge Dodgson) (1832-1898)

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.


The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"


The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.


The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"


"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.


"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."


The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.


But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.


Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.


The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.


"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."


"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.


"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."


"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?


"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"


"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"


"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.


"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

Oh, I do love Lewis Carroll, too! That is great.

I like the part about having shoes but not having feet.

I showed this poem to Shu, and he not only knew it, but he knows it by heart.

Reviving a thread:

I am missing Bob these days and all his poems. I hope he comes back soon. For that matter, I would like to see more of arnie, as well.

I came across this poem the other day - I remember it as a song when I was a girl:

My Grandfather's Clock
by Henry Clay Work (1832-1884)

My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor.
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.
It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride;
But it stopped short — never to go again —
When the old man died.
Ninety years without slumbering
(Tick, tock, tick, tock)
His life's seconds numbering
(Tick, tock, tick, tock)
It stopped short — never to go again —
When the old man died.

In watching its pendulum swing to and fro,
Many hours he had spent while a boy;
And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know
And to share both his grief and his joy,
For it struck 24 when he entered at the door
With a blooming and beautiful bride;
But it stopped short — never to go again —
When the old man died.

Ninety years without slumbering
(Tick, tock, tick, tock)
His life's seconds numbering
(Tick, tock, tick, tock)
It stopped short — never to go again —
When the old man died.

My grandfather said that of those he could hire,
Not a servant so faithful he found,
For it wasted no time, and had but one desire —
At the close of each week to be wound.
And it kept in its place — not a frown upon its face,
And its hands never hung by its side,
But it stopped short — never to go again —
When the old man died.

Ninety years without slumbering
(Tick, tock, tick, tock)
His life's seconds numbering
(Tick, tock, tick, tock)
It stopped short — never to go again —
When the old man died.

It rang an alarm in the dead of the night —
An alarm that for years had been dumb;
And we knew that his spirit was pluming for flight —
That his hour of departure had come.
Still the clock kept the time, with a soft and muffled chime
As we silently stood by his side;
But it stopped short — never to go again —
When the old man died.

Ninety years without slumbering
(Tick, tock, tick, tock)
His life's seconds numbering
(Tick, tock, tick, tock)
It stopped short — never to go again —
When the old man died.

Bob is back. Just haven't had anything interesting enough to post recently. I'll pit more effort into it.