Originally posted by Dr StrangeloveHow can you be so blunt
...so that all the pseudo-poets can stick their "poetry" in there and spare the rest of us.
Thanks - you know it makes sense.
As to outright request such demand
Of all the stars ive seen at night
Yours is the darkest in the land
EDIT: Yeah I can see your point, we need that forum pretty bad.
Originally posted by adam warlockI think we should keep trying. . . . A poem thread was started a while ago on site idea but it died quickly.. . .
So you telling me it is a lost cause?
OK I will add my five pence worth. . . Has anybody read "The Picture of Dorian Grey" by Oscar Wilde?. . . . Fantastic.
If not here is a poetic taster that eludes to his only novel. . . .
THE HARLOT'S HOUSE
We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot's house.
Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The "Treues Liebes Herz" of Strauss.
Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.
We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.
Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille.
The took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.
Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.
Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.
Then, turning to my love, I said,
"The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust."
But she--she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.
Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.
And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.
Oscar Wilde
Originally posted by EAPOEWe'll keep on trying then.
I think we should keep trying. . . . A poem thread was started a while ago on site idea but it died quickly.. . .
OK I will add my five pence worth. . . Has anybody read "The Picture of Dorian Grey" by Oscar Wilde?. . . . Fantastic.
If not here is a poetic taster that eludes to his only novel. . . .
THE HARLOT'S HOUSE
We caught the tread of da et,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.
Oscar Wilde
Never read it... It is one of those texts i want to get my eyes on.
But life seem to be shorter and shorter and busier as the days go...
edit: Great poem!
TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream ! —
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real ! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal ;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way ;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle !
Be a hero in the strife !
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !
Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act,— act in the living Present !
Heart within, and God o'erhead !
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time ;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate ;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
From the first day I saw it i loved this poem!
