One Line Never Ending Poem

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15 Jul '15 11:31

redbadger
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13 Aug '15 08:50
Originally posted by Great Big Stees
but "five" was just a number, stuck betwixt
seven and six
Old Money
English coins
bronze & silver
but never gold
Great Big Stees
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13 Aug '15 14:03
Originally posted by redbadger
Old Money
English coins
bronze & silver
but never gold
Not unlike some country's Olympic medal counts.
redbadger
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14 Aug '15 09:11
Originally posted by Great Big Stees
Not unlike some country's Olympic medal counts.
or Grampy bobbys posts
Grampy Bobby
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15 Aug '15 10:38
Our visiting poet for Sunday, August 16, 2015,
is British Poet, Wilfred Owen (1893–1918)

Anthem for Doomed Youth

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

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

~Wilfred Owen

Note: Since first reading this poem (written by a soldier who died at the age
of twenty five years old) many sunsets still remind me of its final line.
Grampy Bobby
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15 Aug '15 10:401 edit
Wilfred Owen (1893–1918)

“Wilfred Owen, who wrote some of the best British poetry on World War I, composed nearly all of his poems in slightly over a year, from August 1917 to September 1918. In November 1918 he was killed in action at the age of twenty-five, one week before the Armistice. Only five poems were published in his lifetime—three in the Nation and two that appeared anonymously in the Hydra, a journal he edited in 1917 when he was a patient at Craiglockhart War Hospital in Edinburgh. Shortly after his death, seven more of his poems appeared in the 1919 volume of Edith Sitwell's annual anthology, Wheels, a volume dedicated to his memory, and in 1919 and 1920 seven other poems appeared in periodicals.

Almost all of Owen’s poems, therefore, appeared posthumously: Poems (1920), edited by Siegfried Sassoon with the assistance of Edith Sitwell, contains twenty-three poems; The Poems of Wilfred Owen (1931), edited by Edmund Blunden, adds nineteen poems to this number; and The Collected Poems of Wilfred Owen (1963), edited by C. Day Lewis, contains eighty poems, adding some juvenilia, minor poems, and fragments but omitting a few of the poems from Blunden’s edition.

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen was born on 18 March 1893, in Oswestry, on the Welsh border of Shropshire, in the beautiful and spacious home of his maternal grandfather. Wilfred’s father, Thomas, a former seaman, had returned from India to marry Susan Shaw; throughout the rest of his life Thomas felt constrained by his somewhat…” http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/wilfred-owen
redbadger
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16 Aug '15 10:33
Originally posted by Grampy Bobby
Wilfred Owen (1893–1918)

“Wilfred Owen, who wrote some of the best British poetry on World War I, composed nearly all of his poems in slightly over a year, from August 1917 to September 1918. In November 1918 he was killed in action at the age of twenty-five, one week before the Armistice. Only five poems were published in his lifetime—three in the N ...[text shortened]... life Thomas felt constrained by his somewhat…” http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/wilfred-owen
she rises early from bed
runs to the mirror
the bruises inflicted
in moments of fury
he kneels beside her
once more
next time I will break
every bone in your body
Grampy Bobby
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18 Aug '15 01:49
Originally posted by redbadger
she rises early from bed
runs to the mirror
the bruises inflicted
in moments of fury
he kneels beside her
once more
next time I will break
every bone in your body
redbadger, perhaps you should consider having your poetry published.
Grampy Bobby
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18 Aug '15 01:50
and so that was the morning and evening of the 33rd day.....
unlike yesterday in many ways.
redbadger
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18 Aug '15 11:26
a dancer at the end of time
a reel and a jig
and ale in a jug
one last kiss
then oblivion.
Grampy Bobby
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20 Aug '15 01:32
and so that was the morning and evening of the 35th day.....
35 days gone forever except for what we've saved..
redbadger
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20 Aug '15 11:53
Originally posted by Grampy Bobby
and so that was the morning and evening of the 35th day.....
35 days gone forever except for what we've saved..
As I placed my hand
On her frozen Knee
I knew withought
A degree in Geography
Antarctica starts here
Grampy Bobby
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Moves
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25 Aug '15 02:391 edit
Originally posted by Grampy Bobby (OP)
One Line Never Ending Poem (rhyming is fine; alternatively imagery with cadence and rhythm)

Much have I traveled in the realms of online public forums
____________________________

and so that was the morning and evening of the 40th day.....
with thanks to each poet for contributing unique consonants and colorful vowels.
redbadger
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25 Aug '15 15:19
Originally posted by Grampy Bobby
CHESS
When poets dreamt of Angels
what did they see
history lined up at their back
when poets dreamt of Angels
what did they see
Bishops and Knights
Well placed to Attack
DS
Grampy Bobby
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28 Aug '15 13:05
Originally posted by redbadger
CHESS
When poets dreamt of Angels
what did they see
history lined up at their back
when poets dreamt of Angels
what did they see
Bishops and Knights
Well placed to Attack
DS
Memorable poem, redbadger; thank you.
Grampy Bobby
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USA
Joined
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Moves
43012
31 Aug '15 01:25
Our visiting poet for Sunday, August 30, 2015,
is none other than William Shakespeare

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

~William Shakespeare

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One Line Never Ending Poem