Announcement

Collapse
No announcement yet.

We are...

Collapse
X
 
  • Filter
  • Time
  • Show
Clear All
new posts

  • We are...

    I

    We are the hollow men
    We are the stuffed men
    Leaning together
    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
    Our dried voices, when
    We whisper together
    Are quiet and meaningless
    As wind in dry grass
    Or rats' feet over broken glass
    In our dry cellar

    Shape without form, shade without colour,
    Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

    Those who have crossed
    With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
    Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
    Violent souls, but only
    As the hollow men
    The stuffed men.

    II

    Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
    In death's dream kingdom
    These do not appear:
    There, the eyes are
    Sunlight on a broken column
    There, is a tree swinging
    And voices are
    In the wind's singing
    More distant and more solemn
    Than a fading star.

    Let me be no nearer
    In death's dream kingdom
    Let me also wear
    Such deliberate disguises
    Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
    In a field
    Behaving as the wind behaves
    No nearer --

    Not that final meeting
    In the twilight kingdom

    III

    This is the dead land
    This is cactus land
    Here the stone images
    Are raised, here they receive
    The supplication of a dead man's hand
    Under the twinkle of a fading star.

    Is it like this
    In death's other kingdom
    Waking alone
    At the hour when we are
    Trembling with tenderness
    Lips that would kiss
    Form prayers to broken stone.

    IV

    The eyes are not here
    There are no eyes here
    In this valley of dying stars
    In this hollow valley
    This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

    In this last of meeting places
    We grope together
    And avoid speech
    Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

    Sightless, unless
    The eyes reappear
    As the perpetual star
    Multifoliate rose
    Of death's twilight kingdom
    The hope only
    Of empty men.

    V

    Here we go round the prickly pear
    Prickly pear prickly pear
    Here we go round the prickly pear
    At five o'clock in the morning.

    Between the idea
    And the reality
    Between the motion
    And the act
    Falls the Shadow

  • #2
    S-P-A-M.

    Wait, I see the relavence now. It's SPAM. Ok, there we go. Got'cha.

    :roll:
    - | BlackErtai | -

    Comment


    • #3
      Little Testament


      I have lived. I have thought and labored, I have loved and possessed my love
      To the utmost inch of flesh, till the deep voice cried in us both.
      I have not cut my coat according to the color of the cloth.
      When the world passed by me in the street, it could have fist or my glove.

      My people were soldiers for the most part -- they had Spain and Ireland in their shroud;
      I was a coward and afraid, yet I have not shamed them, I think.
      I have not refused the drink when there might be venom in the drink.
      I have written the verse for my pleasure, not for praise or money or the crowd.

      Loving two countries well, sweet France, like a well-sunned pear,
      And this red, hard apple, America, tart-flavored, tasting of the wild,
      I can lie at ease in either, yet may the child of my child
      Run the heaps of gold leaves in the Fall, see the red leaf hanging in blue air.

      With the five dull tools of the senses, I have seen great Jupiter enskied,
      Tasted the buds of spruce, the buds by the lakeside in the Spring,
      Smelt woodsmoke and snow unfallen, heard the gold horns answer to the string
      And touched the entire earth, on the mountain, naked as a bride.

      I have been a traitor and loyal, a fool and the enemy of fools;
      Certain friends I would not betray. I have worn ragged overcoats for pride.
      I shall keep the delusions of my soul a secret until I have died,
      Because of a stubborn nothing that would not answer to the rules.

      So it is. So be it with me. I make my mark and depart.
      Children of children of my children, you will yet have a stinging in your blood,
      A dark cell, a hidden laughter, and eye seeing bad and good
      That chooses one mask in public but a different image in the heart.

      Now the mind rusts into madness, the horses run without bit,
      The paltry body is nothing but mechanics of bone and skin.
      Nevertheless I have spoken. This nothing spoke for its kin
      And loved one woman completely. Let her remember it.

      -Stephen Vincent Benet
      I'm not so bad... Once you get to know me.

      Comment


      • #4
        No, I like it.

        Is this a song?

        Edit : Or a poem?
        JM

        Comment


        • #5
          the first was a poem by T.S. Eliot called "The Hollow Men"
          I'm not so bad... Once you get to know me.

          Comment


          • #6
            It's one long-ass of a poem.

            That, or my culture level is too low to know anything better.
            JM

            Comment


            • #7
              that's one of his shorter ones, i'd say. One of T.S. Eliot's most famous is "The Wasteland" which is around 13 or so pages. He's also done several plays in poetry format - Murder in the Cathedral, The Rock, etc.

              SVB is much the same way - some of his poems are short, some are up to 10 or 20 pages. He's also won the pulitzer prize twice for poems that are novel-length.
              I'm not so bad... Once you get to know me.

              Comment


              • #8
                You seem to know a lot about poems and writers, Thwark.
                JM

                Comment


                • #9
                  some poems and some writers, yeh. T.S. Eliot and SVB are a couple of my favorites, so that helps 8)
                  I'm not so bad... Once you get to know me.

                  Comment


                  • #10
                    He was a boy
                    She was a girl
                    Can i make it any more obvious
                    He was a punk
                    She did ballet
                    What more can i say
                    He wanted her
                    She'd never tell secretly she wanted him as well
                    But all of her friends
                    Stuck up their nose
                    They had a problem with his baggy clothes

                    He was a skater boy
                    She said see you later boy
                    He wasn't good enough for her
                    She had a pretty face
                    But her head was up in space
                    She needed to come back down to earth

                    5 years from now
                    She sits at home
                    Feeding the baby she's all alone
                    She turns on tv
                    Guess who she sees
                    Skater boy rockin up MTV
                    She calls up her friends
                    They already know
                    And they've all got
                    Tickets to see his show
                    She tags along
                    Stands in the crowd
                    Looks up at the man that she turned down

                    He was a skater boy
                    She said see you later boy
                    He wasn't good enough for her
                    Now he's a super star
                    Slamming on his guitar
                    Does your pretty face see what he's worth?
                    [...]
                    Deftones

                    Comment


                    • #11
                      LOL @ SeEManN,

                      Trust you to lower the tone!!
                      ~TuF~

                      Comment


                      • #12
                        METROPOLITAN NIGHTMARE
                        by Stephen Vincent Benet


                        It rained quite a lot, that spring. You woke in the morning
                        And saw the sky still clouded, the streets still wet,
                        But nobody noticed so much, except the taxis
                        And the people who parade. You don't, in a city.
                        The parks got very green. All the trees were green
                        Far into July and August, heavy with leaf,
                        Heavy with leaf and the long roots boring and spreading,
                        But nobody noticed that but the city gardeners
                        And they don't talk.
                        Oh, on Sundays, perhaps, you'd notice:
                        Walking through certain blocks, by the shut, proud houses
                        With windows boarded, the people gone away,
                        You'd suddenly see the queerest small shoots of green
                        Poking through the cracks and crevices in the stone
                        And a bird-sown flower, red on a balcony,
                        But then you made jokes about grass growing in the streets
                        And politics and grass-roots -- and there were songs
                        And gags and a musical show called "Hot And Wet."
                        It all made good box for the papers. When the flamingo
                        Flew into a meeting of the Board Of Estimate,
                        The new Mayor acted at once and called the photographers.
                        When the first green creeper crawled upon the Brooklyn Bridge,
                        They thought it was ornamental. They let it stay.

                        That was the year the termites came to New York
                        And they don't do that well in cold climates -- but listen, Joe,
                        They're only ants and ants are nothing but insects.
                        It was funny and yet rather wistful, in a way
                        (As Heywood Broun pointed out in the World-Telegram)
                        To think of them looking for wood in a steel city.
                        It made you feel about life. It was too divine.
                        There were funny pictures by all the smart, funny artists
                        And Macy's ran a terribly clever ad:
                        "The Widow's Termite" or something.
                        There was no
                        Disturbance. Even the Communists didn't protest
                        And say they were Morgan hirelings. It was too hot,
                        Too hot to protest, too hot to get excited,
                        An even, African heat, lush, fertile and steamy,
                        That soaked into bone and mind and never once broke.
                        The warm rain fell in fierce showers and ceased and fell.
                        Pretty soon you got used to its always being that way.

                        You got used to the changed rhythm, the altered beat,
                        To people walking slower, to the whole bright
                        Fierce pulse of the city slowing, to men in shorts,
                        To the new sun-helmets from Best's and the cops' white uniforms,
                        And the long noon-rest in the offices, everywhere.
                        It wasn't a plan or anything. It just happened.
                        The fingers tapped the keys slower, the office-boys
                        Dozed at their benches, the bookkeeper yawned at his desk.
                        The AT&T was the first to change the shifts
                        And establish an official siesta-room,
                        But they were always effecient. Mostly it just
                        Happened like sleep itself, like a tropic sleep,
                        Till even the Thirties were deserted at noon
                        Except for a few tourists and one damp cop.
                        They ran boats to see the big lilies on the North River
                        But it was only the tourists who really noticed
                        The flocks of rose-and-green parrots and parakeets
                        Nesting in the stone crannies of the Cathedral.
                        The rest of us had forgotten when they first came.

                        There wasn't any real change, it was just a heat spell,
                        A rain spell, a funny summer, a weather-man's joke,
                        In spite of the geraniums three feet high
                        In the tin-can gardens of Hester and Desbrosses.
                        New York was New York. It couldn't turn inside out.
                        When they got the news from Woods Hole about the Gulf Stream,
                        The Times ran an adequate story.
                        But nobody reads those stories but science-cranks.

                        Until one day, a somnulent city-editor
                        Gave a new cub the termite yarn to break his teeth on.
                        The cub was just down from Vermont, so he took the time.
                        He was serious about it. He went around.
                        He read all about termites in the Public Library
                        And it made him sore when they fired him.
                        So, one evening,
                        Talking with an old watchman, beside the first
                        Raw girders of the new Planetopolis Building
                        (Ten thousand brine-cooled offices, each with shower)
                        He saw a dark line creeping across the rubble
                        And turned a flashlight on it.
                        "Say, buddy," he said,
                        "You better look out for those ants. They eat wood, you know,
                        They'll have your shack down in no time."
                        The watchman spat.
                        "Oh, they've quit eating wood," he said, in a casual voice,
                        "I thought everybody knew that."
                        -- and, reaching down,
                        He pried from the insect jaws the bright crumb of steel.
                        I'm not so bad... Once you get to know me.

                        Comment


                        • #13
                          Red be the water, as be the snow.
                          Red be the desert, filled with our woes.

                          Much blood shall float, blood will be spillt,
                          filling the beaches, coloring woods,
                          we're all gonna die but now I have to go.

                          Good?

                          Comment

                          Working...
                          X