[saoq]

!@#$%!, do you know a poem by W H Auden that has a line w/ some crack thru a vase or a cup ? i've been searching for it- the image was close to Rilke's metaphor of the porzelan crack from the duino elegies.

[!@#$%!]

Originally Posted by saoq

!@#$%!, do you know a poem by W H Auden that has a line w/ some crack thru a vase or a cup ? i've been searching for it- the image was close to Rilke's metaphor of the porzelan crack from the duino elegies.

As I Walked Out One Evening

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
"Love has no ending.

"I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,

"I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

"The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world."

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
"O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

"In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

"In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

"Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.

"O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.

"The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

"Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.

"O look, look in the mirror?
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

"O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart."

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.

--W.H. Auden

[saoq]

wow thanks. I'll try to find more by that poet. about the formal vs free verse, I believe writing a good poem w/o rhymes/formal rhythm is a lot more difficult than writing one using some old form. the first poet has to create a form specific to the content etc.

[atari 2600]

These are song lyrics by Ray Davies, but what the hell...i should put them in that older "lyrics thread" but I'm not doing stuff like that anymore. for the most part, no one ever really seemed to notice my thoughtful bumps at the old board anyway.


Shangri-la, Arthur Or The Decline And Fall Of The British Empire (1969)

it's also on cd 1 of The Kink Kronikles (1972) compilation where it is even more effective because it's sandwiched between Dead End Street & Autumn Almanac.

download & play it loud:
http://www.megaupload.com/?d=QRHUQI16
haha additional instructions:
what you do is right before the part that Dave Davies starts to sing & the song shifts tempo, you take a big toke or swig or whatever; it'll have you up & dancing. if it doesn't, then your soul is probably in jeopardy.

Now that you've found your paradise
This is your kingdom to command
You can go outside and polish your car
Or sit by the fire in your shangri-la
Here is your reward for working so hard
Gone are the lavatories in the back yard
Gone are the days when you dreamed of that car
You just want to sit in your shangri-la

Put on your slippers and sit by the fire
You've reached your top and you just can't get any higher
You're in your place and you know where you are
In your shangri-la
Sit back in your old rocking chair
You need not worry, you need not care
You can't go anywhere
Shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la

The little man who gets the train
Got a mortgage hanging over his head
But he's too scared to complain
'cos hes conditioned that way
Time goes by and he pays off his debts
Got a tv set and a radio

For seven shillings a week

Shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la

<do it now>

And all the houses in the street have got a name
'cos all the houses in the street they look the same
Same chimney pots, same little cars, same window panes
The neighbors call to tell you things that you should know
They say their lines, they drink their tea, and then they go
They tell your business in another shangri-la
The gas bills and the water rates, and payments on the car
Too scared to think about how insecure you are
Life ain't so happy in your little shangri-la
Shangri-la, shangri-la la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la

Put on your slippers and sit by the fire
You've reached your top and you just can't get any higher
Youre in your place and you know where you are
In your shangri-la
Sit back in your old rocking chair
You need not worry, you need not care
You can't go anywhere
Shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la

[nomadicfollower]

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art


Charles Bukowski




Maybe cliche, but I'm not too big into poetry.