Nothing beats beer and football poetry! Yes that's right, screw football and let's have some real cultural aesthetics here. I'll start by posting one of my favourite poems, by John Keats http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Keats (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Keats). It's called "Ode To Melancholy":
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of glob?d peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty -- Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
Some words:
Lethe = mythical river in the land of the dead, or something like that
wolfsbane, nightshade, yew-berries = poisonous plants
Proserpine = greek death goddess of sorts
Quote from: BonzaiJoe
Lethe = mythical river in the land of the dead, or something like that
Lethe is one of the 5 rivers separating the land of the living to the land of the deads in the Greek mythology. It was the river of Forgetfulness.
Therefore, when the author says he doesn't want to go to Lethe, it means he doesn't want to forget. Melancholy needs remembrance. ;)
Most known of Greek's Hell rivers is the Styx, due to War of Troy story and Achille's heel.
Other rivers are Archeon, Cocyte and Phlegethon (not sure of English names, but at least those are French names).
Thanks! That's important to know. Now the poem got just a bit better still!
I wonder if wolfsbane, nightshade and yew-berries point to different meanings too then...
do we have a published poet amongst us? :o
http://www.inlibroveritas.net/auteur2277.html
I love this topic, but my poetic abilities and love is, sorry, German language centered... :(
Sorry for saying that but poetry is just a useless game with words, without any REAL effect. Science moves the world. Tell me a single REALISTIC reason (so don't tell that: "because it forms your soul and mentality" or" because it's 'nice' and people need nice things") why literature or any arts are important for the world!
Quote from: CTG on February 05, 2008, 04:14:58 PM
Sorry for saying that but poetry is just a useless game with words, without any REAL effect. Science moves the world. Tell me a single REALISTIC reason (so don't tell that: "because it forms your soul and mentality" or" because it's 'nice' and people need nice things") why literature or any arts are important for the world!
You'll know the answer if you had ever seen "Equilibrium". They ARE necessary, even if it can't be prooved how important they are. Imagine if we didn't have movies, or music, or books, don't you read books, watch movies and listen to music?
I don't read books unless I have to (science).
I don't like movies in general, I just watch some series and the obvious films being the part of the general basic knowledge (rather exercise, not fun).
I listen to music only if I'm drunk. ;D
I accept only MARTIAL ARTS. ;D
BonzaiJoe 17:26:21 Posting in Poetry Fanats 2008.
Here comes the master of nothing. ;D
Quote from: CTG on February 05, 2008, 04:14:58 PM
Sorry for saying that but poetry is just a useless game with words, without any REAL effect. Science moves the world. Tell me a single REALISTIC reason (so don't tell that: "because it forms your soul and mentality" or" because it's 'nice' and people need nice things") why literature or any arts are important for the world!
That is complete bullshit.
First of all, you say "realistic" but you mean "material". Why should we care about what's material? Why do you think science is important for the world? I assume by "the world" you mean "human beings". To human beings, science may make it possible to live a bit longer or get to places faster, but what we need some CONTENT in life, or its pointless. Poetry and other art is this content, along with other things (love, sex, sports etc.). Science and all other material things are just tools to indirectly achieve these things.
I can't agree. Without science we would still live on the tree. No fire for example...
without art we might as well be robots. Stunts replays would also be very boring if it wouldnt be art.
Quote from: CTG on February 05, 2008, 05:43:31 PM
I can't agree. Without science we would still live on the tree. No fire for example...
I don't think fire was a scientific development... more like a factical discover, just no to say casual discover...
Quote from: zaqrack on February 05, 2008, 06:18:03 PM
without art we might as well be robots. Stunts replays would also be very boring if it wouldnt be art.
AMEN!
Quote from: CTG on February 05, 2008, 04:14:58 PM
Sorry for saying that but poetry is just a useless game with words, without any REAL effect. Science moves the world. Tell me a single REALISTIC reason (so don't tell that: "because it forms your soul and mentality" or" because it's 'nice' and people need nice things") why literature or any arts are important for the world!
I think it does have a "real" (the version of "real" which is "real" to you :)) effect. Fx: I write and read poetry almost everyday. It makes me feel better. Of course it doesn't matter to the world in general how I feel, BUT when I'm not well my father (who is a professor in economy) doesn't work as well as when I'm happy (I know that). I work in a bookshop so I guess my work isn't so important (when it comes to having effect in the "real" way), but I also work a lot worse, when I'm not feeling well.
Here's a fantastic poem for those who love German poetry :-* :-*
Paul Celan - Todesfuge
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken sie abends
wir trinken sie mittags und morgens wir trinken sie nachts
wir trinken und trinken
wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete
er schreibt es und tritt vor das Haus und es blitzen die Sterne er pfeift seine Rüden herbei
er pfeift seine Juden hervor läßt schaufeln ein Grab in der Erde
er befiehlt uns spielt auf nun zum Tanz
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich morgens und mittags wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete
Dein aschenes Haar Sulamith wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng
Er ruft stecht tiefer ins Erdreich ihr einen ihr andern singet und spielt
er greift nach dem Eisen im Gurt er schwingts seine Augen sind blau
stecht tiefer die Spaten ihr einen ihr andern spielt weiter zum Tanz auf
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags und morgens wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith er spielt mit den Schlangen
Er ruft spielt süßer den Tod der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
er ruft streicht dunkler die Geigen dann steigt ihr als Rauch in die Luft
dann habt ihr ein Grab in den Wolken da liegt man nicht eng
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
wir trinken dich abends und morgens wir trinken und trinken
der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland sein Auge ist blau
er trifft dich mit bleierner Kugel er trifft dich genau
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
er hetzt seine Rüden auf uns er schenkt uns ein Grab in der Luft
er spielt mit den Schlangen und träumet der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith
P.S. In a little while, I'm going into town to spend the whole evening with poets and poetry. Maybe is has no effect (it sure has to me), but who cares :D :-*
Zak: so my replays are boring? Because there's no art in them. :D
Lise: you are talking like HR... ;D
Sure there is art in your replays, CTG.
Anyway, what's the point of not living in a tree? Why shouldn't we remain in the stone age? What's the point of anything? Come up with a REALISTIC answer, CTG. Not something like "to feel better" :P
To play God. Human is more than animal - and we are getting closer and closer to be perfect. We can already make life in a lab. The reason of scientific evolution must be that.
Quote from: CTG on February 05, 2008, 07:50:22 PM
Lise: you are talking like HR... ;D
HR? Harry Rotter? ???
You must be very happy without knowing what HR is... ;)
human resources (managers), the most useless job on earth...
Quote from: CTG on February 06, 2008, 12:02:59 AM
You must be very happy without knowing what HR is... ;)
human resources (managers), the most useless job on earth...
Ahh I see. Well I can think of many other reasons why poetry is important and one of the greatest things in the world, BUT I guess you were looking for something that would "improve the world" in this kind of way
Quote from: CTG on February 05, 2008, 09:37:56 PM
To play God. Human is more than animal - and we are getting closer and closer to be perfect. We can already make life in a lab. The reason of scientific evolution must be that.
Okay, I could have listed that among love, music, sports etc. Things people do to feel happy/inspired. For me it's poetry (and a lot of other things), for you it's playing God. I would find that rather tedious and pointless.
And yes, humans are more than animals. Animals don't write poetry.
We can't be perfect, because we all have different ideas of perfection. Hopefully we aren't getting closer to being perfect in your eyes.
I hope we will. Imagine a lot longer high-tech life - you would have 200 years to make music and read books... ;)
Okay that's a good argument :) And that's my view on the role of science. It is a tool, to give us better opportunities for doing what it really is we want to do. In my case reading/writing poetry (and other things...)
But I guess if we had 200 years we would produce less (if we knew that we once only had 80 years to), fx poems/year and we would have more days filled with frustration...I'm not sure it would be worth it.
Who knows the way how it changes your life if you have some extra years? If you don't have to hurry, you get more relaxed.
Quote from: CTG on February 06, 2008, 01:12:18 AM
Who knows the way how it changes your life if you have some extra years? If you don't have to hurry, you get more relaxed.
yes that is one way it could go. But I fear I wouldn't be able to "relax more". I think I would expect myself to get much more out of life.
Once upon a time somebody said that punks have a nice life: music, sex, alcohol, drugs - die young but after a full life.
Quote from: zaqrack on February 05, 2008, 11:50:55 AM
do we have a published poet amongst us? :o
http://www.inlibroveritas.net/auteur2277.html
Yep, that's me. I talked about it already in this topic (http://forum.stunts.hu/index.php?topic=2029.0). ;)
Quote from: CTG on February 05, 2008, 09:37:56 PM
To play God. Human is more than animal - and we are getting closer and closer to be perfect.
Yes, human is more than animal, because we are the only living beeings killing other living beeings just for pleasure, or for political/religious reasons. Great evolution. Soon, we will be able to kill without beeing soiled by blood splashing of the one we kill, it will be perfection. ;D
I love science, but imagination and poetry are also part of what we are.
Quote from: CTG on February 06, 2008, 01:12:18 AM
If you don't have to hurry, you get more relaxed.
Frankie Goes To Holywood - RelaxRelax don't do it
When you want to to go to it
Relax don't do it
When you want to come
Relax don't do it
When you want to suck it to it
Relax don't do it
When you want to comeOK, it's a sex song, but doing sex is also a good way to get relaxed after you did it. ;D :D
Quote from: CTG on February 05, 2008, 09:37:56 PMWe can already make life in a lab.
And we can already make love in a lab. ;D
By the way do not believe in the maker, and nor in the evolution. Some small very important steps remained unanswered (e.g. how life started in mixture of substances), and I do not believe that everything we know, we think, we feel, we remember, everything which lift mankind over the animal world is coded in DNS. Once I started to write several questions which in my opinion, can't be answered by evolution. Quite a lot of questions were gathered together in that file. But I don't believe in tales either, so I don't believe in God, and I am an atheist.
By the way have you heard about the tribe of dogons?
About poems and poetry: I think it has a meaning to write your feelings into a poem, but I don't think that there's anything art in it. A poem can be more beautiful than the other, but not because of there's for example more metaphor in it. It's not art and it's not beautiful to write your feelings into a poem in a more hidden way. A poem is good and has a meaning until it can be comprehended only one way. In literature this kind of poems are very rare. Literature teachers teach that the poet thought x when he wrote that line, but nobody is sure about this, only the literature "science" thinks that. You can be sure about that line means something other, but it's not accepted if you write that in school when you're writing a test. Until things like this can happen, there's absolutely no art and no meaning in writing poems which are considered a valuable poem for the literature "science".
I rather hate art than non natural scientific sciences. Other sciences can be useful, too: philosophy helps you to choose a way to think, grammar helps you to learn other languages, history helps mankind to avoid previously made mistakes. But a simple white plate is as useful to eat from as one from earlier centuries with a very famous and complicated design. A simple poem (like my one and only poem was from 1996) is as suitable to express your thoughts than a complicated one. There's no use of knowing more and more dances, you can move your body and get rid of your weekly tension in a disco or in a concert, too. Being more sophisticated is the bigger asslicker of this world you are. Who cares who played in x film, who wrote y poem, who was the king of z country in 1800 etc etc...
I hate this world...
Akoss is based on insticts, nothing more. :D
Quote from: Akoss Poo on February 06, 2008, 05:27:57 PM
Quote from: CTG on February 05, 2008, 09:37:56 PMWe can already make life in a lab.
About poems and poetry: I think it has a meaning to write your feelings into a poem, but I don't think that there's anything art in it. A poem can be more beautiful than the other, but not because of there's for example more metaphor in it. It's not art and it's not beautiful to write your feelings into a poem in a more hidden way. A poem is good and has a meaning until it can be comprehended only one way. In literature this kind of poems are very rare. Literature teachers teach that the poet thought x when he wrote that line, but nobody is sure about this, only the literature "science" thinks that. You can be sure about that line means something other, but it's not accepted if you write that in school when you're writing a test. Until things like this can happen, there's absolutely no art and no meaning in writing poems which are considered a valuable poem for the literature "science".
I rather hate art than non natural scientific sciences. Other sciences can be useful, too: philosophy helps you to choose a way to think, grammar helps you to learn other languages, history helps mankind to avoid previously made mistakes. But a simple white plate is as useful to eat from as one from earlier centuries with a very famous and complicated design. A simple poem (like my one and only poem was from 1996) is as suitable to express your thoughts than a complicated one. There's no use of knowing more and more dances, you can move your body and get rid of your weekly tension in a disco or in a concert, too. Being more sophisticated is the bigger asslicker of this world you are. Who cares who played in x film, who wrote y poem, who was the king of z country in 1800 etc etc...
I hate this world...
Okay, you moved into literature criticism, that was not very careful of you :)
First of all, I think that all of your post is tainted with a general hate or dissatisfaction caused by something that has nothing to do with what you are actually writing about. I can't be sure about this, but your post looks like it. If it's the case, don't let everything be overshadowed! It is essential to fight hate using the beauty that still hasn't been tainted.
Secondly, about poetry:
"Literature teachers" don't care what the poet thought when he wrote the poem. That is a biographical question, not a literary question, and only people who haven't studied literature will ask it. There is no way to find out what the author thought, and really it doesn't matter at all. The only thing that matters, and the only thing that people like myself who study literature care about is the actual text. What is expressed in the text? What does the text do? What can we draw from the text?
Generally, all literature can be divided, if one wishes, into two realms: form and content. In prose, form is not so important, but in poetry it is dominant. That is one of the things that divide prose from poetry. The enjoyment of the content is generally intellectual, and the enjoyment of the form is simpler, more emotional. You seem to disregard this second enjoyment (why? It would seem to be something the snobs you yourself describe would do), which of course greatly demeans the total output of the poem, which is a combination of these two values, hopefully heavily interacting.
But let's for the moment look only at the content of a poem or prose. I agree then with your basic idea: there is no reason to write something in a complicated way if it could be written in a simple way instead. Then the complicated way can still be good, but the simple way would be better, as it has better chances of being understood, and is easier to read. But I really don't believe that everything can be expressed simply. And I am very grateful that it can't, for what a boring world that would then be! I find that simple poetry can be good, but in the long run, you've read it all (as it can only express rather simple things), and that's when complicated poetry becomes more interesting. The objective of good complicated poetry is to express things in life that can't be expressed simply. Things that can't be expressed without metaphors. The world is full of those things. And it even becomes fuller of them because poets invent new concepts using metaphors, imagery, meters etc. I love this! It makes the world richer and it broadens my horizon.
Some small examples from music:
GOOD, SIMPLE:
"I know it's over
and it never really began
but in my heart it was so real" (even though this contains one metaphor, the "heart" metaphor, it is simple and strong)
(Morrissey, The Smiths - I Know It's Over)
BAD, SIMPLE:
"anytime that you're feeling restless
take a deep breath and let it go
only know that it leaves me breathless
anytime that you're low" (this is crap for so many reasons I don't even know where to start. But at least it rhymes :))
(Andy Bell, Erasure - How My Eyes Adore You)
BAD, COMPLICATED:
"you'll see your problems multiply
if you continually decide
to faithfully pursue
the policy of truth" (might as well have said: "lie, or you'll get more trouble". Full of useless fluff which does make the form better, but at too high an expense content-wise)
(Martin Gore, Depeche Mode - Policy Of Truth)
GOOD, COMPLICATED:
"So this is permanence
Love's shattered pride
What once was innocence
turned on its side" (is there a way to express the same simply? No. Is it something worth expressing? Yes.)
(Ian Curtis, Joy Division - Twenty-Four Hours)
All of them are BAD. ;D
Quote from: BonzaiJoe on February 06, 2008, 12:13:10 AM
Hopefully we aren't getting closer to being perfect in your eyes.
Quote from: CTG on February 06, 2008, 12:39:16 AM
I hope we will. Imagine a lot longer high-tech life - you would have 200 years to make music and read books... ;)
Science is supposed to improve life quality, not only delaying dead. If art makes life quality better, why not take it seriously? (Yes, I know it sounds like Patch Adams, don't worry, I still feel the same way) ;)
CTG has a point here. ;D
Well, the ones I chose as good are from lyrics that are generally regarded as some of the greatest in the history of modern music. So if you want to have a different opinion, that's fine, but difficult to take seriously. It's like if I had quoted Shakespeare and you had just written it off as bad. It says more about you than Shakespeare...
Quote from: BonzaiJoe on February 06, 2008, 07:18:20 PM
Quote from: Akoss Poo on February 06, 2008, 05:27:57 PM
Quote from: CTG on February 05, 2008, 09:37:56 PMWe can already make life in a lab.
About poems and poetry: I think it has a meaning to write your feelings into a poem, but I don't think that there's anything art in it. A poem can be more beautiful than the other, but not because of there's for example more metaphor in it. It's not art and it's not beautiful to write your feelings into a poem in a more hidden way. A poem is good and has a meaning until it can be comprehended only one way. In literature this kind of poems are very rare. Literature teachers teach that the poet thought x when he wrote that line, but nobody is sure about this, only the literature "science" thinks that. You can be sure about that line means something other, but it's not accepted if you write that in school when you're writing a test. Until things like this can happen, there's absolutely no art and no meaning in writing poems which are considered a valuable poem for the literature "science".
I rather hate art than non natural scientific sciences. Other sciences can be useful, too: philosophy helps you to choose a way to think, grammar helps you to learn other languages, history helps mankind to avoid previously made mistakes. But a simple white plate is as useful to eat from as one from earlier centuries with a very famous and complicated design. A simple poem (like my one and only poem was from 1996) is as suitable to express your thoughts than a complicated one. There's no use of knowing more and more dances, you can move your body and get rid of your weekly tension in a disco or in a concert, too. Being more sophisticated is the bigger asslicker of this world you are. Who cares who played in x film, who wrote y poem, who was the king of z country in 1800 etc etc...
I hate this world...
Okay, you moved into literature criticism, that was not very careful of you :)
First of all, I think that all of your post is tainted with a general hate or dissatisfaction caused by something that has nothing to do with what you are actually writing about. I can't be sure about this, but your post looks like it. If it's the case, don't let everything be overshadowed! It is essential to fight hate using the beauty that still hasn't been tainted.
Secondly, about poetry:
"Literature teachers" don't care what the poet thought when he wrote the poem. That is a biographical question, not a literary question, and only people who haven't studied literature will ask it. There is no way to find out what the author thought, and really it doesn't matter at all. The only thing that matters, and the only thing that people like myself who study literature care about is the actual text. What is expressed in the text? What does the text do? What can we draw from the text?
Generally, all literature can be divided, if one wishes, into two realms: form and content. In prose, form is not so important, but in poetry it is dominant. That is one of the things that divide prose from poetry. The enjoyment of the content is generally intellectual, and the enjoyment of the form is simpler, more emotional. You seem to disregard this second enjoyment (why? It would seem to be something the snobs you yourself describe would do), which of course greatly demeans the total output of the poem, which is a combination of these two values, hopefully heavily interacting.
But let's for the moment look only at the content of a poem or prose. I agree then with your basic idea: there is no reason to write something in a complicated way if it could be written in a simple way instead. Then the complicated way can still be good, but the simple way would be better, as it has better chances of being understood, and is easier to read. But I really don't believe that everything can be expressed simply. And I am very grateful that it can't, for what a boring world that would then be! I find that simple poetry can be good, but in the long run, you've read it all (as it can only express rather simple things), and that's when complicated poetry becomes more interesting. The objective of good complicated poetry is to express things in life that can't be expressed simply. Things that can't be expressed without metaphors. The world is full of those things. And it even becomes fuller of them because poets invent new concepts using metaphors, imagery, meters etc. I love this! It makes the world richer and it broadens my horizon.
Some small examples from music:
GOOD, SIMPLE:
"I know it's over
and it never really began
but in my heart it was so real" (even though this contains one metaphor, the "heart" metaphor, it is simple and strong)
(Morrissey, The Smiths - I Know It's Over)
BAD, SIMPLE:
"anytime that you're feeling restless
take a deep breath and let it go
only know that it leaves me breathless
anytime that you're low" (this is crap for so many reasons I don't even know where to start. But at least it rhymes :))
(Andy Bell, Erasure - How My Eyes Adore You)
BAD, COMPLICATED:
"you'll see your problems multiply
if you continually decide
to faithfully pursue
the policy of truth" (might as well have said: "lie, or you'll get more trouble". Full of useless fluff which does make the form better, but at too high an expense content-wise)
(Martin Gore, Depeche Mode - Policy Of Truth)
GOOD, COMPLICATED:
"So this is permanence
Love's shattered pride
What once was innocence
turned on its side" (is there a way to express the same simply? No. Is it something worth expressing? Yes.)
(Ian Curtis, Joy Division - Twenty-Four Hours)
1) I think you have to know the song (how he sings it, the music and so on), to see these as great lines. They are okay, but "alone" they are not among his best...I think :)
2) I actually don't think it's THAT bad. It's not a poem, but I think it quite sweet.
3) Yes that is close to very bad
4) I'm not really sure about these. Guess I have to read it some more times or hear the song.
Yes, admittedly all of the examples are small fragments of lyrics. I didn't want to bore you with the whole things, but if you wish, I shall gladly paste them in their fullness.
/me marks this topic as read from now... :D
Quote from: BonzaiJoe on February 08, 2008, 12:57:20 PM
Yes, admittedly all of the examples are small fragments of lyrics. I didn't want to bore you with the whole things, but if you wish, I shall gladly paste them in their fullness.
No...it was just to try to explain (to CTG) why the lyrics from I Know It's Over may not look as good as the really are
I know Lise :) I didn't think you would be bored with Moz or Curtis lyrics, but the others would.
QuoteWell, the ones I chose as good are from lyrics that are generally regarded as some of the greatest in the history of modern music. So if you want to have a different opinion, that's fine, but difficult to take seriously. It's like if I had quoted Shakespeare and you had just written it off as bad. It says more about you than Shakespeare...
Look, I don't disagree with you about Shakespeare. But let's have a small argument about logic, ok?
What you are basically saying is that the majority is always right. What the majority regards as "good" must be good. Let's take a look at politics and it's easy to see you are wrong.
Or do you really think Bush was the best option for the USA just because he got elected?
Ok he didn't really have a majority but you see my point. Look at other countries. There are so many cases the majority makes stupid decisions.
So if someone disagrees with the majority it does not necessarily imply his taste is misguided.
Not really, your argument is beside the point. If you were someone with an authority on the matter, or if you had put up an argument for the case, I could take it seriously despite the majority.
In any case, your personal opinion is also irrelevant to the point. I can't exclude that there are some people with very strange taste who think that Morrissey and Ian Curtis are bad lyricist, just like some people will dislike Shakespeare, but I feel that I can still list them as good poets, to support the point I was making to Akoss.
As for George Bush, actually if you ask in the whole world, I think you will only find less than 10% to call him a good president, and about 80% to call him bad. Even in both the 2000 and the 2004 elections, only the Americans (and perhaps some selected other countries) supported him. And even that was only about half of the voting Americans (about one fourth of the total amount of Americans with the right to vote). But that's a different discussion...
My statement was more of a general nature. That the majority is, often, not right. Now we can argue about single cases whether the majority is right or not. It's useless. I just don't buy the argument that if the majority thinks X is good. Then X is really good.
About poetry. To be honest I never really dealt with that matter. So you can freely ignore my opinion here. "CTG has a point here" was just some kind of joke. Poetry is not my pair of shoes at all and I don't think I can argue beyond what I subjectively like or dislike.
So no reason for hard feelings here. ;)
Quote from: Akoss Poo on February 06, 2008, 05:27:57 PMWho cares (...) who was the king of z country in 1800 etc etc...
Such a strange sentence from you after the "history" discussion we had about events that caused the disband of Hungarian empire long before we were all born (yes, all, even AbuRaf :D)
Quote from: Chulk on February 06, 2008, 09:40:13 PMScience is supposed to improve life quality, not only delaying dead.
There are 2 categories of science :
- research
- application
Research is pure search for knowledge and understanding, Application is adaptation of research discoveries to every day application. Improving life quality (medically speaking) and extend life are both applications. What we do at my job is also application, mainly application of polymers chemistry.
Pure research for me can also be considered as a part of art, or science poetry if you prefer. What could be the application(s) of knowing the Universe origin (big bang or any other theory) ? What could be application of the too low neutrino level coming from the sun ? Nothing for our daily life. But some guys are living for that. They are poets of science, searching for a knowledge without any application.
Personnally, I prefer science when it's focused on what could improve our world. Instead of spending billions of dollar for creating Hubble (for example), this money would have more more useful if it had been used for medical research to cure diseases (especially "orphan diseases", these diseases that had no financial interest for laboratories because too few people on Earth are concerned), irrigate the deserts, stop the work of children in some countries that still apply it, ...
But anyway I can't be angry about pure researchers, they have this part of science devotion madness that make them as crazy as poets somehow.
You know, poetry is not only adding words to create rhymes and use allegories to talk about things. Poetry can be a way of thinking our lives.
Quote from: Argammon on February 08, 2008, 08:29:16 PM
My statement was more of a general nature. That the majority is, often, not right. Now we can argue about single cases whether the majority is right or not. It's useless. I just don't buy the argument that if the majority thinks X is good. Then X is really good.
About poetry. To be honest I never really dealt with that matter. So you can freely ignore my opinion here. "CTG has a point here" was just some kind of joke. Poetry is not my pair of shoes at all and I don't think I can argue beyond what I subjectively like or dislike.
So no reason for hard feelings here. ;)
Fair enough... You are right that the multitude isn't always right, of course. But I guess the multitude will agree on that, too...
Let's decrease the level with a nice BÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖFF!!! :P
Let's raise the level again with one of my favourite poets, which I sadly have to read in a translated version. But it says something about it that it's so great even in english!
ARTHUR RIMBAUD - THE DRUNKEN BOAT (LE BATEAU IVRE)
As I was floating down unconcerned Rivers
I no longer felt myself steered by the haulers:
Gaudy Redskins had taken them for targets
Nailing them naked to coloured stakes.
I cared nothing for all my crews,
Carrying Flemish wheat or English cottons.
When, along with my haulers those uproars were done with
The Rivers let me sail downstream where I pleased.
Into the ferocious tide-rips
Last winter, more absorbed than the minds of children,
I ran! And the unmoored Peninsulas
Never endured more triumphant clamourings
The storm made bliss of my sea-borne awakenings.
Lighter than a cork, I danced on the waves
Which men call eternal rollers of victims,
For ten nights, without once missing the foolish eye of the harbor lights!
Sweeter than the flesh of sour apples to children,
The green water penetrated my pinewood hull
And washed me clean of the bluish wine-stains and the splashes of vomit,
Carring away both rudder and anchor.
And from that time on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk,
Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam,
A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down;
Where, suddenly dyeing the bluenesses, deliriums
And slow rhythms under the gleams of the daylight,
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than music
Ferment the bitter rednesses of love!
I have come to know the skies splitting with lightnings, and the waterspouts
And the breakers and currents; I know the evening,
And Dawn rising up like a flock of doves,
And sometimes I have seen what men have imagined they saw!
I have seen the low-hanging sun speckled with mystic horrors.
Lighting up long violet coagulations,
Like the performers in very-antique dramas
Waves rolling back into the distances their shiverings of venetian blinds!
I have dreamed of the green night of the dazzled snows
The kiss rising slowly to the eyes of the seas,
The circulation of undreamed-of saps,
And the yellow-blue awakenings of singing phosphorus!
I have followed, for whole months on end, the swells
Battering the reefs like hysterical herds of cows,
Never dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys
Could force back the muzzles of snorting Oceans!
I have struck, do you realize, incredible Floridas
Where mingle with flowers the eyes of panthers
In human skins! Rainbows stretched like bridles
Under the seas' horizon, to glaucous herds!
I have seen the enormous swamps seething, traps
Where a whole leviathan rots in the reeds!
Downfalls of waters in the midst of the calm
And distances cataracting down into abysses!
Glaciers, suns of silver, waves of pearl, skies of red-hot coals!
Hideous wrecks at the bottom of brown gulfs
Where the giant snakes devoured by vermin
Fall from the twisted trees with black odours!
I should have liked to show to children those dolphins
Of the blue wave, those golden, those singing fishes.
- Foam of flowers rocked my driftings
And at times ineffable winds would lend me wings.
Sometimes, a martyr weary of poles and zones,
The sea whose sobs sweetened my rollings
Lifted its shadow-flowers with their yellow sucking disks toward me
And I hung there like a kneeling woman...
Almost an island, tossing on my beaches the brawls
And droppings of pale-eyed, clamouring birds,
And I was scudding along when across my frayed cordage
Drowned men sank backwards into sleep!
But now I, a boat lost under the hair of coves,
Hurled by the hurricane into the birdless ether,
I, whose wreck, dead-drunk and sodden with water,
neither Monitor nor Hanse ships would have fished up;
Free, smoking, risen from violet fogs,
I who bored through the wall of the reddening sky
Which bears a sweetmeat good poets find delicious,
Lichens of sunlight [mixed] with azure snot,
Who ran, speckled with lunula of electricity,
A crazy plank, with black sea-horses for escort,
When Julys were crushing with cudgel blows
Skies of ultramarine into burning funnels;
I who trembled, to feel at fifty leagues' distance
The groans of Behemoth's rutting, and of the dense Maelstroms
Eternal spinner of blue immobilities
I long for Europe with it's aged old parapets!
I have seen archipelagos of stars! and islands
Whose delirious skies are open to sailor:
- Do you sleep, are you exiled in those bottomless nights,
Million golden birds, O Life Force of the future? -
But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter:
Sharp love has swollen me up with heady langours.
O let my keel split! O let me sink to the bottom!
If there is one water in Europe I want, it is the
Black cold pool where into the scented twilight
A child squatting full of sadness, launches
A boat as fragile as a butterfly in May.
I can no more, bathed in your langours, O waves,
Sail in the wake of the carriers of cottons,
Nor undergo the pride of the flags and pennants,
Nor pull past the horrible eyes of the hulks.
Quote from: BonzaiJoeone of my favourite poets, which I sadly have to read in a translated version.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD
Only one solution : learn French. ;D
Quote from: BonzaiJoeBut it says something about it that it's so great even in english!
Anyway, I'm curious to learn your interpretation of this poem, even if this translation is sometimes quite bad.
There are 3 "levels" of interpretation of this poem. I'm curious to see which one is yours.
Rimbaud <3 :-* <3 :-* <3 :-*
(sorry for the pointless post)
These two stanzas are the best. The height of all poetry:
But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter:
Sharp love has swollen me up with heady langours.
O let my keel split! O let me sink to the bottom!
If there is one water in Europe I want, it is the
Black cold pool where into the scented twilight
A child squatting full of sadness, launches
A boat as fragile as a butterfly in May.
Interpretation: later. For now, I have heeded to Krys' advice, and taken out my "Le Petit Prince" and a French-Danish dictionary. I must learn that language.
Quote from: BonzaiJoe on February 11, 2008, 12:50:55 AM
These two stanzas are the best. The height of all poetry:
But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter:
Sharp love has swollen me up with heady langours.
O let my keel split! O let me sink to the bottom!
If there is one water in Europe I want, it is the
Black cold pool where into the scented twilight
A child squatting full of sadness, launches
A boat as fragile as a butterfly in May.
Interpretation: later. For now, I have heeded to Krys' advice, and taken out my "Le Petit Prince" and a French-Danish dictionary. I must learn that language.
Cool! I have spend the whole day on Goethe's Römische Elegien (extremely difficult German :o) and tomorrow I'll try to translate a bit of "La Comédie Humaine" (Balzac) :D
Oh, Goethe... ::) But I really love this one:
Ein Gleiches
Über allen Gipfeln
Ist Ruh',
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch;
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.
We had that one in one of our first lectures... We were told that every german kid has read that in secondary school. Anyway, disregarding Faust, which I have not read, I still hold the "Die Leiden des jungen Werthers" is his greatest work.
Werthers? ;D
(http://www.mrsbrowns.co.uk/acatalog/WERTHERS_ORIGINAL.jpg)
Really? I did not have to read it... My most loved book by Goethe is "Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre", a real fat thing, 8 books, but I have to laugh several times reading it. But Goethe is not my favorite writer.
Reiner Kunze, a german poet I really, really like, 've heard him very often, he reads his poems very well, well Reiner Kunze tells, why I need poetry in my life:
Poetik
So viele antworten gibt's.
doch wir wissen nicht zu fragen
Das gedicht
ist der blindenstock des dichters
Mit ihm berührt er die dinge,
um sie zu erkennen
Another poetrice I really love to read is Ulla Hahn. This one is a mean one about Love:
Heller Wahnsinn
Die Liebe ist kein Engelchen mit Flügeln,
kein dicker Säugling der mit Pfeilchen schießt;
die Liebe ist ein Engel von vielen,
die Gottes Rache aus dem Himmel stieß
als sie wie er sein wollte: schön und
grausam blind und allmächtig, nicht
von dieser Welt zeigt sie seither
in immer neuen Bildern das Gesicht
des Würgeengels der nach seiner Peitsche
die Herzen tanzen lässt bis er zuletzt
die Taumelnden Gefallenen zu fällen
den Fuß auf ihre armen Kehlen setzt,
und dort verharrt, sich auf dem Absatz
wendet sorgfältig, ohne Eile, hin und her.
Mitunter soll es glücken zu entkommen
der Freispruch heißt: Ich liebe dich nicht mehr!
Quote from: BonzaiJoe on February 11, 2008, 12:50:55 AM
The height of all poetry:
If there is one water in Europe I want, it is the
Black cold pool where into the scented twilight
A child squatting full of sadness, launches
A boat as fragile as a butterfly in May.
A big hint of the real deep meaning of this poem is in this part you quoted, and in the last part.
I can't wait to read you interpretation.
Quote from: Krys TOFF on February 08, 2008, 09:59:08 PM
Quote from: Akoss Poo on February 06, 2008, 05:27:57 PMWho cares (...) who was the king of z country in 1800 etc etc...
Such a strange sentence from you after the "history" discussion we had about events that caused the disband of Hungarian empire long before we were all born (yes, all, even AbuRaf :D)
The name of the king is just a redundant fact. You are more sophisticated if you know this, but adds nothing to the general understanding of where your country is now, and how it came to this status.
Quote from: BonzaiJoe on February 06, 2008, 07:18:20 PMOkay, you moved into literature criticism, that was not very careful of you :)
First of all, I think that all of your post is tainted with a general hate or dissatisfaction caused by something that has nothing to do with what you are actually writing about. I can't be sure about this, but your post looks like it. If it's the case, don't let everything be overshadowed! It is essential to fight hate using the beauty that still hasn't been tainted.
Secondly, about poetry:
"Literature teachers" don't care what the poet thought when he wrote the poem. That is a biographical question, not a literary question, and only people who haven't studied literature will ask it. There is no way to find out what the author thought, and really it doesn't matter at all. The only thing that matters, and the only thing that people like myself who study literature care about is the actual text. What is expressed in the text? What does the text do? What can we draw from the text?
Generally, all literature can be divided, if one wishes, into two realms: form and content. In prose, form is not so important, but in poetry it is dominant. That is one of the things that divide prose from poetry. The enjoyment of the content is generally intellectual, and the enjoyment of the form is simpler, more emotional. You seem to disregard this second enjoyment (why? It would seem to be something the snobs you yourself describe would do), which of course greatly demeans the total output of the poem, which is a combination of these two values, hopefully heavily interacting.
But let's for the moment look only at the content of a poem or prose. I agree then with your basic idea: there is no reason to write something in a complicated way if it could be written in a simple way instead. Then the complicated way can still be good, but the simple way would be better, as it has better chances of being understood, and is easier to read. But I really don't believe that everything can be expressed simply. And I am very grateful that it can't, for what a boring world that would then be! I find that simple poetry can be good, but in the long run, you've read it all (as it can only express rather simple things), and that's when complicated poetry becomes more interesting. The objective of good complicated poetry is to express things in life that can't be expressed simply. Things that can't be expressed without metaphors. The world is full of those things. And it even becomes fuller of them because poets invent new concepts using metaphors, imagery, meters etc. I love this! It makes the world richer and it broadens my horizon.
Some small examples from music:
GOOD, SIMPLE:
"I know it's over
and it never really began
but in my heart it was so real" (even though this contains one metaphor, the "heart" metaphor, it is simple and strong)
(Morrissey, The Smiths - I Know It's Over)
BAD, SIMPLE:
"anytime that you're feeling restless
take a deep breath and let it go
only know that it leaves me breathless
anytime that you're low" (this is crap for so many reasons I don't even know where to start. But at least it rhymes :))
(Andy Bell, Erasure - How My Eyes Adore You)
BAD, COMPLICATED:
"you'll see your problems multiply
if you continually decide
to faithfully pursue
the policy of truth" (might as well have said: "lie, or you'll get more trouble". Full of useless fluff which does make the form better, but at too high an expense content-wise)
(Martin Gore, Depeche Mode - Policy Of Truth)
GOOD, COMPLICATED:
"So this is permanence
Love's shattered pride
What once was innocence
turned on its side" (is there a way to express the same simply? No. Is it something worth expressing? Yes.)
(Ian Curtis, Joy Division - Twenty-Four Hours)
I always feel a general dissatisfaction with this world, and now it's stronger then usual, I'm living quite bad weeks of my life. But, as I mentioned, I always felt this, and maybe you know this from old chatroom and msn conversations. Maybe my sentences in that post were woven through with that general dissatisfaction, but I think you can say that on almost all of my posts, even when I say BÖFF sometimes.
I think we misunderstood each other a bit. You say it's not important what the poet had thought, but it's important what the text expresses. For me, the two are exactly the same. The text expresses what the poet wanted to be expressed by himself, but it's not always easily understandable what it (the poem) wants to be expressed. And it can be understandable many many ways. The more complicated it is, the more way it can be understood. I think a poem should be understood only one (or very few) ways. The principles, laws of nature can be understood one way only. What is said to be science, it needs to be understood only one way. Literature can be defined as a science (a non natural science), but art can't. Large part of literature said to be art, but that's is just overcomplicated shit, and shouldn't be taught in school.
For me, poem and good poetry means to make your thoughts or things you want to be expressed in lines which rhyme, and consist of more or less the same syllables. It is more complicated than a prose a bit. Complicated is maybe not the most perfect word, it's rather more symmetric. Since nature always strive for being more and more symmetric, for people, the more symmetric thing (anything!) sounds/looks better. That's why people like poems, that's why I also don't ignore poetry. But it shouldn't be overcomplicated the way you like it.
About the mentioned four examples: I think "bad and simple" is far the best. The "good and simple" one is not so simple because of the unnecessary metaphor, it need time to be understood, and when it's made, I felt it wasn't worthy to think about it (and it's true for almost all of the "complicated" poems or parts of poems). By the way "good and complicated" is slightly better than "good and simple", but I can't describe why, especially in English. :) The "complicated" ones would have been better if they had been written in a more simple way.
Science: one way of thinking?!?!? Do you know how many different theories are for molecular orbitals? ;D
Quote from: Akoss PooI think a poem should be understood only one (or very few) ways.
A poem like that is a bad poem. :P ;D
Quote from: Akoss PooThe principles, laws of nature can be understood one way only. What is said to be science, it needs to be understood only one way.
There's only one, way of life
And that's your own, your own, your ownLevellers - One wayEverybody can find his own way. But an only one-way thinking would bore me quickly personnally. :D
Quote from: Akoss PooFor me, poem and good poetry means to make your thoughts or things you want to be expressed in lines which rhyme, and consist of more or less the same syllables. It is more complicated than a prose a bit. Complicated is maybe not the most perfect word, it's rather more symmetric.
So maybe you should create your view of the perfect poetry : the symetric rhythmed and palindromic poetry. ;)
Quote from: Akoss PooThe "complicated" ones would have been better if they had been written in a more simple way.
Sometimes, poets don't want to be understood by everyone. Sometimes their own lives depended on that when the poems were written. Don't forget that.
Personnaly, I like to read a poem, understand it in a way, then re-read it and find other interpretations, and again and again. This way, the poem is always a new one in my mind. That's what I call a good poem (or a text in general, some short stories can be that way too).
The one Jacky quoted from Rimbaud is one of the best examples. I won't detail right now the different levels of understandng it because I still wait BJ's interpretation of it. ;D So I'll do it after him. ;)
there you go a piece of art, which is also science and also a good refelction of our society. Specially recommended to Akoss:
http://www.cloaca.be/
http://www.wired.com/culture/lifestyle/news/2002/01/49606?currentPage=1
Quote from: zaqrackhttp://www.cloaca.be/
"With Cloaca Cyber Poo, I increased my self-awareness in a profound way."
LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL ! :D
Quote from: Akoss Poo on February 14, 2008, 01:10:23 PM
Quote from: BonzaiJoe on February 06, 2008, 07:18:20 PMOkay, you moved into literature criticism, that was not very careful of you :)
First of all, I think that all of your post is tainted with a general hate or dissatisfaction caused by something that has nothing to do with what you are actually writing about. I can't be sure about this, but your post looks like it. If it's the case, don't let everything be overshadowed! It is essential to fight hate using the beauty that still hasn't been tainted.
Secondly, about poetry:
"Literature teachers" don't care what the poet thought when he wrote the poem. That is a biographical question, not a literary question, and only people who haven't studied literature will ask it. There is no way to find out what the author thought, and really it doesn't matter at all. The only thing that matters, and the only thing that people like myself who study literature care about is the actual text. What is expressed in the text? What does the text do? What can we draw from the text?
Generally, all literature can be divided, if one wishes, into two realms: form and content. In prose, form is not so important, but in poetry it is dominant. That is one of the things that divide prose from poetry. The enjoyment of the content is generally intellectual, and the enjoyment of the form is simpler, more emotional. You seem to disregard this second enjoyment (why? It would seem to be something the snobs you yourself describe would do), which of course greatly demeans the total output of the poem, which is a combination of these two values, hopefully heavily interacting.
But let's for the moment look only at the content of a poem or prose. I agree then with your basic idea: there is no reason to write something in a complicated way if it could be written in a simple way instead. Then the complicated way can still be good, but the simple way would be better, as it has better chances of being understood, and is easier to read. But I really don't believe that everything can be expressed simply. And I am very grateful that it can't, for what a boring world that would then be! I find that simple poetry can be good, but in the long run, you've read it all (as it can only express rather simple things), and that's when complicated poetry becomes more interesting. The objective of good complicated poetry is to express things in life that can't be expressed simply. Things that can't be expressed without metaphors. The world is full of those things. And it even becomes fuller of them because poets invent new concepts using metaphors, imagery, meters etc. I love this! It makes the world richer and it broadens my horizon.
Some small examples from music:
GOOD, SIMPLE:
"I know it's over
and it never really began
but in my heart it was so real" (even though this contains one metaphor, the "heart" metaphor, it is simple and strong)
(Morrissey, The Smiths - I Know It's Over)
BAD, SIMPLE:
"anytime that you're feeling restless
take a deep breath and let it go
only know that it leaves me breathless
anytime that you're low" (this is crap for so many reasons I don't even know where to start. But at least it rhymes :))
(Andy Bell, Erasure - How My Eyes Adore You)
BAD, COMPLICATED:
"you'll see your problems multiply
if you continually decide
to faithfully pursue
the policy of truth" (might as well have said: "lie, or you'll get more trouble". Full of useless fluff which does make the form better, but at too high an expense content-wise)
(Martin Gore, Depeche Mode - Policy Of Truth)
GOOD, COMPLICATED:
"So this is permanence
Love's shattered pride
What once was innocence
turned on its side" (is there a way to express the same simply? No. Is it something worth expressing? Yes.)
(Ian Curtis, Joy Division - Twenty-Four Hours)
I always feel a general dissatisfaction with this world, and now it's stronger then usual, I'm living quite bad weeks of my life. But, as I mentioned, I always felt this, and maybe you know this from old chatroom and msn conversations. Maybe my sentences in that post were woven through with that general dissatisfaction, but I think you can say that on almost all of my posts, even when I say BÖFF sometimes.
I think we misunderstood each other a bit. You say it's not important what the poet had thought, but it's important what the text expresses. For me, the two are exactly the same. The text expresses what the poet wanted to be expressed by himself, but it's not always easily understandable what it (the poem) wants to be expressed. And it can be understandable many many ways. The more complicated it is, the more way it can be understood. I think a poem should be understood only one (or very few) ways. The principles, laws of nature can be understood one way only. What is said to be science, it needs to be understood only one way. Literature can be defined as a science (a non natural science), but art can't. Large part of literature said to be art, but that's is just overcomplicated shit, and shouldn't be taught in school.
For me, poem and good poetry means to make your thoughts or things you want to be expressed in lines which rhyme, and consist of more or less the same syllables. It is more complicated than a prose a bit. Complicated is maybe not the most perfect word, it's rather more symmetric. Since nature always strive for being more and more symmetric, for people, the more symmetric thing (anything!) sounds/looks better. That's why people like poems, that's why I also don't ignore poetry. But it shouldn't be overcomplicated the way you like it.
About the mentioned four examples: I think "bad and simple" is far the best. The "good and simple" one is not so simple because of the unnecessary metaphor, it need time to be understood, and when it's made, I felt it wasn't worthy to think about it (and it's true for almost all of the "complicated" poems or parts of poems). By the way "good and complicated" is slightly better than "good and simple", but I can't describe why, especially in English. :) The "complicated" ones would have been better if they had been written in a more simple way.
I really don't understand why you find it important what the writer of a poem thought. What if he wasn't thinking anything? What if the poem was written by a computer? You can never know, and if you persist that you want to focus on people instead of texts, you will not be able to enjoy poetry, as obviously you aren't :). So I encourage you to become more like me, and read the texts for what they are. Just like you do with any other thing - you use something the way you want to use it, not necessarily the way it was intended to be used. And sometimes things weren't created with a certain intention, sometimes with ambiguous intentions... It's the same with poetry.
For me, the goal is to become inspired, to learn more, to expand my horizon, to enrich my life. Poetry is a means to that. I let the poetry play with my brain, so to speak. It's a bit like holding prisms before a light projector and seeing what the scene looks like. The poems are prisms. Every poem allows me to see life in a different way (unless it expresses only something I have already seen before, but this is exactly what complicated poetry doesn't). Some light-projections are more beautiful than others, like paintings. Some because of patterns, some because of colours, some because of an interpreted meaning. But even a prism which doesn't make the stage look beautiful can have a value because it makes it look unusual. Then my life is enriched, I can think about things in a different way, find out more, stop being bored with something I was bored with before, etc. That is the true value of poetry to me. If it's beautiful that's just even better. Poems like the Rimbaud one has both qualities.
I also don't understand your distinction between "literature" and "art". The only literature that isn't art is stuff like medical journals. Art is simply a mode of expression that allows you to express so much more than you can with other modes of expression. Much more complicated things. That's why it's taught at school - it is essential in order to build up a broad understanding of the world.
To put it in a different way: literature can be seen as a science, and it can be seen as an art. If it's seen as science, it is really bad science, if it's seen as art, it is really good art. But science/art is not a dichotomy at all, they both pertain to the same truth, only science does it in a precise way, leaving out no factors, while art does it in an abstract way, shooting out infinitely more widely and profoundly, but at the expense of accuracy.
But look at it this way: my view on poetry is bringing me an inexhaustible source of inspiration and value, while your view gives you nothing except the occasionally passing joy of a well-constructed pattern. Maybe you should switch to my view? We create the world for ourselves, and limited perspective means limited life.
Sorry, it is really hard to express things like these clearly, and I know this post is difficult to understand.
(Please ignore the outdated title: This is perhaps the greatest "serious" thread around here and I'm feeling like doing some forum necromancy)
Lord Byron - The Destruction of Sennacherib
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
(And to the folks who think poetry is too soft a pastime for "true men", whatever that means: consider how the poem above could sound awesome if set to a prog metal tune, Opeth style. In fact, I actually want to try doing that some day :))
böff
Very nice :-)
It's fun re-reading my last post on this thread. I had forgotten about writing it, but three months later I went and wrote my BA-thesis on basically the same subject. The idea for it might have formed here in the Forum.
As for Byron, Duplode - you are still half a true man. It's poetry, but it's about mass killing :-)
My personal favourite Byron poem, on the other hand, makes me a 100% genuine fake man:
There be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like Thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charméd ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep,
Whose breast is gently heaving
As an infant's asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
My favourite Byron, in fact, probably consists of these "Stanzas to Augusta":
Though the day of my destiny's over,
And the star of my fate hath declined,
Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find;
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit hath painted
It never hath found but in thee.
Then when nature around me is smiling
The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling
Because it reminds me of thine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,
As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,
It is that they bear me from thee.
Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd
To pain — it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me:
They may crush, but they shall not contemn —
They may torture, but shall not subdue me —
'Tis of thee that I think — not of them.
Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though slander'd, thou never could'st shake, —
Though trusted, thou didst not betray me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
Nor, mute, that the world might belie.
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
Nor the war of the many with one —
If my soul was not fitted to prize it
'Twas folly not sooner to shun:
And if dearly that error hath cost me,
And more than I once could foresee,
I have found that, whatever it lost me,
It could not deprive me of thee.
From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd,
Thus much I at least may recall,
It hath taught me that which I most cherish'd
Deserved to be dearest of all:
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
Digging up this useless topic, dedicated to BlowJob.
Literature is still gay.
That's a particularly wise comment right after three Byron poems. Anyway, I'm considering whether I should like stuff like this, or if it's somehow hollow and seductive?
When everyone you have ever loved is finally gone
when everything you have ever wanted is finally done with
when all of your nightmares are for a time obscured
as by a shining brainless beacon
or a blinding eclipse of the many terrible shapes of this world
when you are calm and joyful
and finally entirely alone
then in a great new darkness
you will finally execute your special plan
one needs to have a plan someone said
who was turned away into the shadows
and who i had believed was sleeping or dead
imagine he said all the flesh that is eaten
the teeth tearing into it
the tongue tasting its savor
and the hunger for that taste
now take away that flesh he said
take away the teeth and the tongue
the taste and the hunger
take away everything as it is
that was my plan
my own special plan for this world
i listened to these words and yet i did not wonder
if this creature whom i had thought sleeping or dead
would ever approach his vision
even in his deepest dreams
or his most lasting death
because i had heard of such plans such visions
and i knew they did not see far enough
but what was demanded in the way of a plan
needed to go beyond tongue and teeth and hunger and flesh
beyond the bones and the very dust of bones and the wind that would come to blow the dust away
and so i began to envision a darkness that was long before the dark of night
and a strangely shining light
that owed nothing to the light of day
that day may seem like other days
once more we feel the tiny legged trepidations
once more we are mangled by a great grinding fear
but that day will have no others after
no more worlds like this will follow
because i have a plan
a very special plan
no more worlds like this
no more days like that
there are but four ways to die a sardonic spirit might have said to me
there is dying that occurs relatively suddenly
there is dying that occurs relatively gradually
there is dying that occurs relatively painlessly
there is the death that is full of pain
thus by various means they are combined
the sudden and the gradual
the painless and the painful
to yield but four ways to die
and there are no others
even after the voice stopped speaking
I listened for it to speak again
after hours and days and years had passed
I listened for some further words
yet all I heard were the faintest echoes reminding me
there are no others
there are no others
was it then that I began to conceive for this world
a special plan?
there are no means for escaping this world
it penetrates even into your sleep
and is its substance
you are caught in your own dreaming
where there is no space
and are held forever where there is no time
you can do nothing you are not told to do
there is no hope for escape from this dream
that was never yours
the very words you speak are only its very words
and you talk like a traitor
under its incessant torture
there are many who have designs upon this world
and dream of wild and vast reformations
i have heard them talking in their sleep
of elegant mutations
and cunning annihilations
i have heard them whispering in the corners of crooked houses
and in the alleys and narrow back streets of this crooked creaking universe
which they with their new designs would make straight and sound
but each of these new and ill conceived designs
is deranged in its heart
for they feel this world as if it were alone and original
and not as only one of countless others
whose nightmares all precede
like a hideous garden grown from a single seed
i have heard these dreamers talking in their sleep
and i stand waiting for them
as at the top of a darkened flight of stairs
they know nothing of me
and none of the secrets of my special plan
while i know every crooked creaking step of theirs
it was the voice of someone who was waiting in the shadows
who was looking at the moon and waiting for me to turn the corner
and enter a narrow street
and stand with him in the dull glaze of moonlight
then he said to me
he whispered
that my plan was misconceived
that my special plan for this world was a terrible mistake
because, he said, there is nothing to do, and there is nowhere to go
there is nothing to be, and there is no one to know
your plan is a mistake, he repeated
this world is a mistake, i replied
the children always followed him
when they saw him hopping by
a funny walk
a funny man
a funny funny funny man
he made them laugh sometimes
he made them laugh oh yes he did
he did he did he did he did
oh how he made them roll
one day he took them to a place
he knew a special place
and told them things about this world
this funny funny funny world
which made them laugh sometimes
he made them laugh oh yes he did
he did he did he did he did
oh how he made them roll
then the funny little man who made them laugh
sometimes he did
revealed to them his special plan
his very special funny plan
knowing they would understand
and maybe laugh sometimes
he made them laugh
oh yes he did
he did he did he did he did
their eyes grew wide beneath their lids
and how he made them roll
i first learned the facts from a lunatic
in a dark and quiet room that smelled of stale time and space
there are no people, nothing at all like that
the human phenomenon is but the sum of densely coiled layers of illusion
each of which winds itself upon the supreme insanity
that there are persons of any kind
when all there can be are mindless mirrors
laughing and screaming as they parade about
in an endless dream
but when i asked the lunatic what it was
that saw itself within these mirrors
as they marched endlessly in stale time and space
he only rocked and smiled
then he laughed and screamed
and in his black and empty eyes
i saw for a moment as in a mirror
a formless shade of divinity
in flight from its stale infinity
of time and space and the worst of all
of this worlds dreams
my special plan for the laughter
and the screams
we went to see some little show
that was staged in an old shed
past the edge of town
and in its beginnings all seemed well
the miniature curtain stage glowed in the darkness
while those dolls bounced along on their strings before our eyes
and in its beginnings all seemed well
but then there came a subtle turning point which some have noticed
and i was one
who quietly left the show
no i did not
because i could see where things were going
as the antics of those dolls grew strange
and the fragile strings grew taut
with their tiny pullings, tiny limbs
the others around me became appalled
and turned away and abandoned the show
that was staged in an old shed
past the edge of town
but i wanted to witness what could never be
i wanted to see what could not be seen
the moment of consummate disaster
my puppets turned to face the puppet master
it was twilight and i stood in the grayish haze of a vast empty building
when the silence was enriched by a reverberant voice
all the things of this world it said
are of but one essence
for which there are no words
this is the greater part which has no beginning or end
and the one essence of this world for which there can be no words
is that all the things of this world
this is the lesser part which had a beginning and shall have an end
and for which words were conceived solely to speak of
the tiny broken beings of this world it said
the beginnings and endings of this world it said
for which words were conceived solely to speak of
now remove these words and what remains it asks me
as i stood in the twilight of that vast empty building
but i did not answer
the question echoed over and over
but i remained silent until the echoes died
and as twilight passed into the evening i felt my
special plan for which there are no words
moving towards a greater darkness
there are some who have no voices
or none that will ever speak
because the things they know about this world
and the things they feel about this world
because the thoughts that fill a brain
that is a damaged brain
because the pain that fills a body
that is a damaged body
exists in other worlds
countless other worlds
each of which stands alone in an infinite empty blackness
for which no words have been conceived
and where no voices are able to speak
when a brain is filled only with damaged thoughts
when a damaged body is filled only with pain
and stands alone in a world surrounded by infinite empty blackness
and exists in a world for which there is no special plan
when everyone you have ever loved is finally gone
when everything you have ever wanted is finally done with
when all of your nightmares are for a time obscured
as by a shining brainless beacon
or a blinding eclipse of the many terrible shapes of this world
when you are calm and joyful
and finally entirely alone
then in a great new darkness
you will finally execute your special plan
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EYYiEilZANAhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EYYiEilZANA
Böff?
Seductive, this is! I can imagine, why you love this poem (knowing your taste of music, well then you know). Anyway - it is very dark. Before I listened to the YouTube-Video I spoke it loudly to me and it reminded me to the lyrics of Anne Clark, who I really love. Dark as well and seductive, very seducctive. But isn't the key in the poem itself, like it says:
"the very words you speak are only its very words
and you talk like a traitor"
Isn't it that way, when you speak the poem and begin to let the waves and atmosphere of the words take you away? You traitor, only able to speak those very words, like I'm writing them down, like I'm doing now?
Traitor - that's really hard, especially for someone writing Ipoems, lyrics, like me)... makes me think of living in Paradise when receiving the grace of having no words to listen to, no words, having to be uttered...
Yes! You really nailed that.
Also, the line
"...the supreme insanity
that there are persons of any kind
when all there can be is mindless mirrors"
This and the sequence about
"the moment of consummate disaster
my puppets turn to face the puppet master"
speak of a tragical objective consciousness of oneself. A perspective from outside, seeing oneself like all humans - as an animal and an automaton. This consciousness is normally hidden by the inner, idiosyncratic perspective. Therefore, "seeing the truth" or knowing all must result in disaster as one is brutally alienated from oneself.
My favourite modernist poem:
The Idea of Order at Key West
Wallace Stevens
She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As the night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds
Quote from: BonzaiJoe on February 21, 2012, 03:59:45 PM
My favourite modernist poem:
The Idea of Order at Key West
Wallace Stevens
She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As the night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds
!!!
(http://www.organic-chemistry.org/namedreactions/Canniz1.gif)
Even Cannizzaro reaction is better than poetry. And it's a well-known fact that Akoss Poo and I really-really hate Cannizzaro reaction! ;D
One day, there was a surprise chemistry test on aldehydes and ketones when we were second year grammar school students. I managed to write my worst ever secondary school test: 20%, which meant a 1 for me, the worst mark here in Hungary (40% would have been needed to get a 2). Among the exercises, there was a difficult one with the application of Cannizzaro reaction hidden in it. (Average grammar school students don't learn about Cannizzaro reaction, but we were specialized in Chemistry, so we had to know it.) Since the test wasn't announced on the previous lesson and I had not learnt anything (because I was in love head over heels with a girl hopelessly), I had no idea how to solve this exercise. CTG also performed badly (though he was not as bad as me), which led to the fact that we really-really hate Cannizzaro reaction, as CTG mentioned.
This topic is really difficult. I love poetry but English poems are hard to read as the understanding of poems needs of course more than just understanding the words. Thus I'm more into German poems. :)
My favourite German poem is of course "Hymnen an die Nacht". After that probably something from Rilke. And everything in Der Himmel über Berlin. What are yours?
Where are "Poetry Fanats 2009", "Poetry Fanats 2010", "Poetry Fanats 2011" and "Poetry Fanats 2012" topics? :D
Ars longa, vita brevis.
But the 25 months long silence is... uhm... disappointing? ;D
Cachorro crente
Dogma
Hot dogma
Comer para crer
I had a wow moment with this:
the hours rise up putting off stars and it is
dawn
into the street of the sky light walks scattering poems
on earth a candle is
extinguishes the city
wakes
with a song upon her
mouth having death in her eyes
and it is dawn
the world
goes forth to murder dreams...
i see in the street where strong
men are digging bread
and i see the brutal faces of
people contented hideous hopeless cruel happy
and it is day,
in the mirror
i see a frail
man
dreaming
dreams
dreams in the mirror
and it
is dusk on earth
a candle is lighted
and it is dark.
the people are in their houses
the frail man is in his bed
the city
sleeps with death upon her mouth having a song in her eyes
the hours descend
putting on stars...
in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems
(E.E. Cummings)
Whow - beautiful! :)