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| Tweet Topic Started: Feb 4 2009, 03:23 AM (249 Views) | |
| King Lear | Feb 4 2009, 03:23 AM Post #1 |
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The Elfin Artist In a glade of an elfin forest When Sussex was Eden-new, I came on an elvish painter And watched as his picture grew, A harebell nodded beside him. He dipt his brush in the dew. And it might be the wild thyme round him That shone in the dark strange ring; But his brushes were bees' antennae, His knife was a wasp's blue sting; And his gorgeous exquisite palette Was a butterfly's fan-shaped wing. And he mingled its powdery colours, And painted the lights that pass, On a delicate cobweb canvas That gleamed like a magic glass, And bloomed like a banner of elf-land, Between two stalks of grass; Till it shone like an angel's feather With sky-born opal and rose, And gold from the foot of the rainbow, And colours that no man knows; And I laughed in the sweet May weather, Because of the themes he chose. For he painted the things that matter, The tints that we all pass by, Like the little blue wreaths of incense That the wild thyme breathes to the sky; Or the first white bud of the hawthorn, And the light in a blackbird's eye; And the shadows on soft white cloud-peaks That carolling skylarks throw,-- Dark dots on the slumbering splendours That under the wild wings flow, Wee shadows like violets trembling On the unseen breasts of snow; With petals too lovely for colour That shake to the rapturous wings, And grow as the bird draws near them, And die as he mounts and sings,-- Ah, only those exquisite brushes Could paint these marvellous things. Alfred Noyes A very well-structured piece, I appreciate structure in poetry. The scheme is perfect, and the writing is fluid. It reads well, as many of Noyes poems. |
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| Midsummer Night | Feb 4 2009, 09:48 PM Post #2 |
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To me the scheme is boring, it's too "ryhmey". I like free flowing poetry, and personally, I think Plath is far better than Noyes. |
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| King Lear | Feb 6 2009, 12:15 AM Post #3 |
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Wow, really? To each his and her own, I guess. I love Noyes. |
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| our*eclipse | Feb 9 2009, 02:59 AM Post #4 |
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It's really pretty, that's what I like about it. I see a lot of poetry that's 'real' and kind of in your face with attitude, so it's refreshing to read something that is so well put-together and has so much attention to all the little details. From the beginning to the end I could see the story unfolding in my mind, and that's not always possible with poetry. |
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| mydyingbreath | Feb 10 2009, 10:30 PM Post #5 |
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Charlotte Bronte's poems are like books. This is part 1 and 2 of The Death Baby by Anne Sexton. 1. DREAMS I was an ice baby. I turned to sky blue. My tears became two glass beads. My mouth stiffened into a dumb howl. They say it was a dream but I remember that hardening. My sister at six dreamt nightly of my death: "The baby turned to ice. Someone put her in the refrigerator and she turned as hard as a Popsicle." I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed. The milk bottle hissed like a snake. The tomatoes vomited up their stomachs. The caviar turned to lave. The pimentos kissed like cupids. I moved like a lobster, slower and slower. The air was tiny. The air would not do. * I was at the dogs' party. I was their bone. I had been laid out in their kennel like a fresh turkey. This was my sister's dream but I remember that quartering; I remember the sickbed smell of the sawdust floor, the pink eyes, the pink tongues and the teeth, those nails. I had been carried out like Moses and hidden by the paws of ten Boston bull terriers, ten angry bulls jumping like enormous roaches. At first I was lapped, rough as sandpaper. I became very clean. Then my arm was missing. I was coming apart. They loved me until I was gone. 2. THE DY-DEE DOLL My Dy-dee doll died twice. Once when I snapped her head off and let if float in the toilet and once under the sun lamp trying to get warm she melted. She was a gloom, her face embracing her little bent arms. She died in all her rubber wisdom. |
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| King Lear | Feb 10 2009, 10:58 PM Post #6 |
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Part 1 is hard for me to follow because it's like a continuation of metaphors, but I want to say that it's good, but I couldn't absorb it. A lot of poets do that to me. Part 2, I could like only because I understood 'a meaning' behind it, which is a shame I can't say the same for Part 1. I'm no good at absorbing things that don't make sense to me right off. |
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| mydyingbreath | Feb 10 2009, 11:05 PM Post #7 |
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She thought she was a still-born baby, put in the fridge but the dogs found her and ate her. There isn't a 'deep' meaning behind it, it's confessional poetry. Still it evokes feelings in me, like nausea, and how many poems can say that? Here.. try part 6. 6. BABY Death, you lie in my arms like a cherub, as heavy as bread dough. Your milky wings are as still as plastic. Hair soft as music. Hair the color of a harp. And eyes made of glass, as brittle as crystal. Each time I rock you I think you will break. I rock. I rock. Glass eye, ice eye, primordial eye, lava eye, pin eye, break eye, how you stare back! Like the gaze if small children you know all about me. You have worn my underwear. You have read my newspaper. You have seen my father whip me. You have seen my stroke my father's whip. I rock. I rock. We plunge back and forth comforting each other. We are stone. We are carved, a pietà that swings. Outside, the world is a chilly army. Outside, the sea is brought to its knees. Outside, Pakistan is swallowed in a mouthful. I rock. I rock. You are my stone child with still eyes like marbles. There is a death baby for each of us. We own him. His smell is our smell. Beware. Beware. There is a tenderness. There is a love for this dumb traveler waiting in his pink covers. Someday, heavy with cancer or disaster I will look up at Max and say: It is time. Hand me the death baby and there will be that final rocking. |
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| King Lear | Feb 10 2009, 11:26 PM Post #8 |
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No, I don't like it, I couldn't finish reading it. I must be hyper-critical of other writers. No, I don't like it. |
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| mydyingbreath | Feb 10 2009, 11:49 PM Post #9 |
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Oh dear lord... here... Life Life, believe, is not a dream So dark as sages say; Oft a little morning rain Foretells a pleasant day. Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, But these are transient all; If the shower will make the roses bloom, O why lament its fall? Rapidly, merrily, Life's sunny hours flit by, Gratefully, cheerily Enjoy them as they fly! What though Death at times steps in, And calls our Best away? What though sorrow seems to win, O'er hope, a heavy sway? Yet Hope again elastic springs, Unconquered, though she fell; Still buoyant are her golden wings, Still strong to bear us well. Manfully, fearlessly, The day of trial bear, For gloriously, victoriously, Can courage quell despair! by Charlotte Bronte See there.. she's so cheery, that should please you. |
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| King Lear | Feb 10 2009, 11:56 PM Post #10 |
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An easy read, a good piece. The other pieces bring back my same feelings of Sylvia Plath, I find them harder to read than maybe... maybe simpler pieces. |
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