Posted on 01/15/2002 8:59:57 AM PST by StoneColdGOP
I never understood Blake - I guess nobody else does either - see:
Poe was the most innovative writer in English since Shakespeare. Not only did he invent the form of the modern detective story; but science fiction; etc.. His burlesques doubtless influenced some of the things which Melville did--such as the Confidence Man--which in turn influenced Mark Twain. He was also the foremost American Literary critic of the 19th Century.
William Flax Return Of The Gods Web Site
A man with no morals to teach
was so bad we had to impeach
who says,"crime don't pay"
why just yesterday
he got 200 thousand a speach.
thats gotta be outa playboy magazine lmao
As it happens, I've been trying to find the author of some verse I read years ago. I think it was mideval. One of the lines goes something like ...
How seldom beauty and vitrue walk together hand in hand...
Another was not dissimilar to the following:
For, lo! The sun shines even upon a pile of dung, and still is not defiled
It seemed like a tongue-in-cheek love sonnet.
Does anyone know the author and title?
Mistah Kurz - he dead. A penny for the Guy!
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpieces filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rat's feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar.
Shape without form, shade without color,
Paralyzed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us - if at all - not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer-
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom.
III
This is the dead land
This is the cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdom.
In the last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning. Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but with a whimper.
The Oval Office was open for play
and sex was the game of the day
but he was bizzare
and used a cigar
now I am a human ASH TRAY.
And check out Gray's Anatomy.
Once upon a time in a western town
When The football team was the worst around
The team was losing 33 to 3
When onto the field walked Spike McGee
He was big and bad and ugly too
But not one in the crowd would say boo
When the coach led him out on his own two feet
He was cracking his whip, and throwing him meat
With one big eye, he'd stare you down,
cuz the other eye just wasn't around
When the other team saw him, they began to yell
For they thought for sure that He'd come from hell
When the ball was snapped, he went out fast
And if you didnt watch out, your first step would be your last
He'd sack the Quarterback, the Fullback, too
And if you didn't watch out, he'd even sack You!
But the other team had some big guys still
Like Giant George, and Humungous Bill
They said the only way to get him was a double-team
Cuz if you tried Spike alone,
You'll surely get creamed
When the ball was snapped, they were off like a shot
But when they hit Spike McGee, all you heard was a pop!
There was a cloud of dust and dirt in the air
And when it cleared away, there was no one there!
Where could they be? Where could they go?
No one could guess, no one could know,
There was a path on the ground that headed for the fans,
When they followed it down, it went under the stands!
But back out of the ground came Spike McGee,
With Bill on his shoulder and George on his knee,
Back onto the field in the middle of play,
"I'm Very mad now, Get out of my way!"
Onto the field he trudged and trumped,
And onto the backfield and flopped with a whump!
His cheeks were so red, his smile so merry,
The quarterback was dead, the halfback was buried!
You've just heard the story of Spike McGee,
his team was losing 33 to 3,
So if your football team is the worst around,
Just look up Spike for fractures compound!
Your opponents will hate you all through the year
Cuz with Spike on your team,
You've got nothing to fear!
Ceiling poetry of James Bancroft and Joseph Boyle, 1976, English class
That's funny. I guess the poster just wanted to share something that they considered was for our reading pleasure, no harm done. I just didn't get the point, like you....:):)
BIG BAD JOHN Every morning at the mine you could see him arrive He stood six foot six and weighted two forty five Kinda broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hip And everybody knew that he didn't give no lip to big John Big John, big John, big bad John, big John Nobody seem to know where John called home He just drifted into town and stayed all alone He didn't say much he was kinda shy And if you spoke at all you just said "hi" to big John Big John, big John, big bad John, big John Somebody said he came from New Orleans Where he got in a fight over a Cajun queen And a crashin' blow from a huge right hand Sent a Louisiana fella to the Promised Land Big John, big John, big bad John, big John Then came the day at the bottom of the mine When a timber cracked and men started cryin' Miners were prayin' and hearts beat fast And everybody thought that they breated their last except John Big John, big John, big bad John, big John Through the dust and the smoke of this man made hell Walked a giant of a man that the miners knew well Grabbed a saggin' timber and gave out with a groan And like a giant oak tree stood there alone Big John, big John, big bad John, big John And with all of his strength he gave a mighty shove Then a miner yelled out "there's a light above" And twenty men scrambled from a would-be grave And now there is only one left down there to save: big John Big John, big John, big bad John, big John With jacks and timbers they started back down Then came that rumble way down in the ground Then smoke and gas belched out of that mine Everyone knew it was the end of the line for big John Big John, big John, big bad John, big John Now they never reopened that worthless pit They just placed a marble stand in front of it These few words are written on that stand "At the bottom of this mine lies a big, big man: Big John" Big John, big John, big bad John, big John
On a night quite unenchanting,
when the rain was downward slanting,
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven,
in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.
"Raven's very tasty," thought I, as I tiptoed o'er the floor,
"There is nothing I like more"
Soft upon the rug I treaded,
calm and careful as I headed
Towards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.
While the bard and birdie chattered,
I made sure that nothing clattered,
Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I crossed the corridor;
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and wierd decor -
Bric-a-brac and junk galore.
Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered,
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents' worth -
"Nevermore."
While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly lept up, pouncing on the feathered bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore -
Only this and not much more.
"Oooo!" my pickled poet cried out,
"Pussycat, it's time I dried out!
Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before;
How I've wallowed in self-pity,
while my gallant, valiant kitty
Put and end to that damned ditty" - then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor,
Jumped - and smashed it on the floor.
I'm doing some research on Poe and came across your posting of this poem. Read it with great pleasure. Can't remember a whit of the explanations from English class in high school.
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